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JULY 2019 | 107
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D
atching a little dial
shudder between thin
vertical lines before
settling on a number
is probably the defining
memory of my
childhood. It always landed on the wrong
one. Even when, from the age of four,
I’d shift the weight of my child’s body
from foot to foot, willing the dial to land
on a number a little to the left. One that
would indicate that I weighed less.
I weighed myself on the scales in my
parents’ bathroom before checking
the number by doing the same at my
grandparents’ house. I’d routinely visit
the local pharmacy to perform the same
routine – stand, weigh, cry – on their
scales, paying for the privilege with the
money I’d been given for sweets.
My self-esteem battle wasn’t ignited by
one cruel jibe or careless comment, I have
simply felt inferior to those around me
pictures of themselves; who refuse the
cake at every office birthday spread; who
feel guilty after finishing a pizza. The idea
that anyone could go through life this
way is heartbreaking to me.
Having children has only cemented the
appreciation I have for my body. For the
big boobs that saw me through relentless
breastfeeding and the wide hips that
support the baby permanently wedged
on my side. For the body that allows me
to push a buggy up a hill with a child on
my shoulders and carry two sleepy girls
up three flights of stairs.
But having my daughters has also
re-emphasised the urgency with which
I need to help my children appreciate
their own bodies. I tell them that they’re
strong and beautiful, just as my own
parents told me. I applaud their running
and climbing, talk about how healthy
food makes us feel good and, when I look
in the mirror, I make sure to say out loud
that I’m happy with what I see.
And it’s true. I’m not saying that I’m
a goddess, but the woman I see in the
mirror is a reflection of my story so far,
from the muscles in my arms, strengthened
by press-ups before bed, to the trace of
a varicose vein in my right thigh from two
pregnancies. There is a world out there
ready to knock my children’s confidence, so
I’m making the most of my chance to ensure
their self-belief runs as deep as my own.
Claire, 40, is Editor-In-Chief of Women’s Health
CLAIRE SANDERSON
for as long as I can remember.
I saw the number on the scales
(that inevitably grew as I did)
as empirical proof that I was fat,
ugly, not good enough. I don’t
like those words, but I use them
because they describe exactly
how I felt then – and, at my
lowest moments, still do.
Looking back, I have a lot
of questions. Why didn’t the
pharmacy staff stop to ask why
a child was regularly spending
money to weigh herself and
cry afterwards? Why didn’t
my parents counter me when
I expressed my distress? Why
did my mother acquiesce when
I begged her, aged seven, to ring
my headmaster and tell him
PROJECT BODY LOVE
Sarah’s daughters,
Coco, seven, and
Sylvie, four