Every morning of her adult life, my mother stepped on a scale and recorded her weight on a chart hanging on the bathroom wall. She lost and regained the same 25 pounds a dozen times, and her comments about weight— her weight, mine, and everyone else’s— were rarely tactful. “You could lose 20 pounds,” she announced at the start of my sophomore year of high school, looking me up and down. “You’d be able to wear cuter clothes.”
I crept into my room, closed the door, and sobbed. In my imagination, my body, already a source of anxiety, ballooned into a disgusting blob. I was a freak, and everyone could see it—even my mother, who was supposed to love me no matter what.
I swore if I had daughters, I’d…
