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DS;^ SHOES,^ KURT^ GEIGER108 | JULY 2019 PROJECT BODY LOVE
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that I needed to sit out of the maths
lesson when my classmates and I were
due to learn about metric measurements
via weighing one another?
Part of me knows the answers. This
was the mid-1980s in a South Wales Valleys
village. My parents are products of their
upbringing, part of solid working-class
stock where talk of emotions is scarce
and love is shown rather than spoken. I felt
loved, but I was never told that I was pretty
during my primary school years, when the
foundations of my body confidence – or
lack thereof – were laid. By the time I was
14, I’d joined a slimming club, despite not
being overweight – although I had womanly
curves before any of my friends. My
relationship with my mother deteriorated
to the point that we rowed daily, so there
was no room for cajoling chats about my
rock-bottom body confidence. Compliments
paid by boys – to whom I suddenly became
visible aged 14 – barely dented the barriers
of body-loathing I’d built up.
And now? People talk about motherhood
being a positive watershed in body
confidence, and while becoming a mum-
of-two has given me a new respect for my
body’s resilience, it would be disingenuousto their children’s appearance at all. I respectfully
disagree with this; I really could have done with being
told I was pretty and beautiful when I was growing up.
So, I tell Nell that she’s pretty and beautiful alongside
commending her for being clever, strong and brilliant.
I’m equally complimentary to my seven-year-old son
Zak, who is completely oblivious to his appearance,
and obsessed with football and rugby. Like I was,
Nell’s bigger-built and taller than her friends already,
something I was always self-conscious about. I’m
careful not to draw attention to the fact, simply telling
Nell that her strength will make her great at sport, just
like her mammy. She sees me swing kettlebells in the
lounge and I tell her it’s to make my muscles bigger;
I want her to see size and strength as a positive.
Perhaps it’s working: she told me recently that she
wants to be Spider-Man or ‘a boss like my mammy’
when she grows up. That’s good enough for me. As
long as she spends her life actually living rather than
inspecting herself in the mirror – and, when she does
look, that she’s proud of what she sees.for me to emphatically agree.
While I don’t think I’ll ever truly
be able to say that I love how I
look, some days I think, ‘I’ll do.’
On others, I struggle to look at
my reflection without becoming
extremely upset, usually when
life has got in the way of eating
healthily and exercising
regularly. The knock-on effect
on my confidence is such that
I’ll spend a subsequent working
day convinced that everyone is
negatively judging me – or I’ll do
my best to wriggle out of social
events for the same reason.
I know that no one can make
it to adulthood with untarnished
self-esteem, but I’m determined
to ensure that my three-year-
old daughter Nell – a mini-me
in every way – doesn’t grow up
with insecurities like mine. Like
many mums, I’ve thought a lot
about the best way to go about
doing it, and I never criticise
my body in front of her. I know
some friends who don’t refer‘I’m determined
to ensure that
my daughter
doesn’t inherit
my insecurities’
Claire’s daughter,
Nell, aged threeClaire, aged 10, with her
brother, Gary, aged four