New Year, New Resolve

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“Put it down! Put it down! You’ll get FAT!” the middle-aged male cousin barks to me across the lawn. At the tender age of eight, I reached for another delicious brownie at our annual family Fourth of July picnic. A chubby child, I shamefully put the confection back on the plate despite it also being my birthday – the one day of the year when I should be allowed to eat whatever the hell I want. My mother shoots him the stink eye as I slink away, embarrassed to tears. Conversation stops and everyone stares – at me. Cousin laughs, having singled me out from the mass of other kids, only to badger me again later. 

The venue is my great-aunt’s lawn in the 1970s, filled with family and a sea of fantastic food spilling down the large picnic table. Assorted waxed paper wrapped sandwiches, a dazzling homemade dessert buffet, a glut of side dishes, and a large tub of every soda flavor imaginable, on ice at the ready. All of this followed by yard games and lounging on my great aunt’s riverfront hillside for the larger-than-life fireworks display; the yearly extravaganza my loving dad always joked he bought for me. 

But this year ends differently. Thanks to my adult cousin’s jeers, my tear-soaked birthday (and wellbeing) has been shattered. It’s the first time the f-word is lobbed at me. FAT. By none other than an overbearing second cousin who chose me to mercilessly pick on. I have no idea whether or not my parents ever took him aside to chastise him for his incorrigible behavior. If they did, they never let on. Neither of my parents liked confrontation, so any conversation would have been private. It was also before the subject of eating disorders and body dysmorphia were household conversation. But media images of Karen Carpenter’s profoundly anorexic state were surfacing as the lid was being lifted on this horrifying subject. Thankfully, painfully thin body types of the 70s have given way to current and diverse perceptions of what “health” looks like. Yet the picnic scene determinedly strides into my consciousness every new year in January – the time of fresh mindsets, particularly in the realm of fitness and weight loss. I’ve never been one for resolutions, per se, as I’ve failed miserably in the past at keeping them. 

This year, however, I’m trying to finally make peace with the body I’ve been given while actively kicking cousin’s sour rhetoric to the curb. A broader mental health aspiration, if you will. My body isn’t perfect, and I have a few extra pounds. Genetically, I will never resemble a straight stick. My rational adult self knows my cousin was simply an unhappy person, and that I should just move on. But every time I’ve pursued more robust self-acceptance, his words catapult themselves front and center into my consciousness as a negative loop on replay in my head. All thanks to his deliberate, soiled diaper toss many years ago to an overweight, fragile youngster already teased due to extra pounds and buck teeth. So, it comes as no surprise how low self-esteem would be a demon I’d face repeatedly growing up. I hated my body and never felt “pretty,” despite extensive orthodontics, weight loss, and academic success. 

Several years after that upsetting picnic, I was a very fit adult at yet another reunion. I felt smug in my appearance and wasn’t sure this cousin would recognize me. His greeting for me, sans hello, was a terse “Yeah, I know who you are” as he walked past without stopping to chat. My husband and I chuckled at his continued arrogance. While reportedly wonderful toward some, for reasons unknown he was brutal to me. 

I’ve indeed made great strides over the years, stripping away layers of mental baggage. But the lingering odor of cousin’s trash can of weight-related jabs wafts through fitness, nutrition, and self-acceptance efforts to this day. I can still hear his raucous, haunting demand to “Put it down! Put it down! You’ll get FAT!” And it angers me –not only that a grown man and father of daughters was callous enough to say it, but that I can’t seem to shake it.  Many folks who attended that picnic in the early 70’s have passed, including this particular cousin, who was “dead to me” years sooner. But I bring him up because his comments have partially stymied my ability to fully accept my body as it is after all these years. 

Raise your hand if you’re female and have struggled from weight-related verbal trauma as a kid. I have tried the noble act of writing a post-humous, forgiving eulogy to him to help shift my thinking. He indeed had a terrible life and struggled with social graces. But the truth is that it does not excuse him (or anyone) from targeting young girls where it hurts the most at an age when feeling accepted is critically taking shape and external validators are often louder than logic. And while we cannot control what others say, we CAN control our response to it. With a seasoned adult lens (and exhausted head), finally obliterating cousin’s voice for good will be my focus in making 2025 a banner year.

I’m now mentally shouting back the good data. How my body serves me well every day with physical demands at home and work. How I successfully grew two humans at the same time. How it has allowed me to walk for miles and do the occasional triathlon. And how it transports me to enjoy beautiful sights and mindful moments everywhere, at home and abroad. It’s a pretty good track record if you ask me, and I’ll bet your list would include similar accomplishments, should you choose to craft one. I urge you to do so; it’s a powerful reminder that a body doesn’t have to be thin to be incredibly useful and therefore beautiful.

I vote we all put abusive, internal naysaying voices to rest this coming year, especially how we perceive our external selves. Let’s continue the momentum to redefine what constitutes a “fine physique.”  Let’s dissect the past hurts we’ve held onto, get them under the microscope, pick them apart to identify their (usually ridiculous) origins, and actively heave them from our existence. Cultivating this new habit takes time –which means having our own backs for a change, and if needed, seeking professional help to untangle what still ties us down. Let’s keep shouting data points at those shade-throwing recesses of our soul. It’s the New Year we so very much deserve, regardless of the shape we’re  in.