My Mother’s Insecurities Resulted in My Own Self-Hatred

If she thinks that of herself, what must she think of me?

You may think I’m biased when I say that my mother is truly beautiful. But for as long as I can remember, my mom has been showered with compliments from everyone around us. Loved for her ability to be so selfless, admired for her fit physique and desirable features, complimented on her clothing, and cherished for her humor. People have always told me that I look just like her; sometimes I can see the similarities.

But my mom has one major flaw; she is very self-conscious.

She would change her outfit at least three times before we left the house, finally settling on one that ‘didn’t show off her belly.’ When she would say something humorous that resulted in laughter, she would blush and try to retract her statement, afraid that we were laughing at her instead of laughing with her. Her friends always envied her physique (she’s a personal trainer), and when they would admire her she would push back. A compliment of her toned arms would be met with ‘oh please, these flabby bingo arms?’ A mention of her slim waistline was never believed, which was evident by the shake of her head and folding of her arms; ‘please, I still look pregnant!’

Some may perceive her reactions as fishing for more compliments, but I knew my mother truly never felt comfortable in her own skin. As a kid, that was hard to realize. How could the woman that I viewed to be the epitome of perfection dislike herself so much?

My memories of my middle and high school years are laced with feelings of self-hatred and insecurity. One of the first times I felt self-conscious was in my dance class. The whole class was standing in a line and looking over our shoulders to watch ourselves in the mirror when I made a horrifying discovery; my butt was bigger than everyone else’s. I was 11 years old and quit dance the following year.

At school I noticed that my stomach wasn’t flat like my friends. No matter the weather, I refused to take off my light blue Gap sweatshirt; I’d rather suffer than show my gut.

I didn’t wear shorts between the ages of 11 and 18. When I would sit at my desk I’d make a conscious effort to keep my weight on my toes to prevent my thighs from spreading out on my chair, you know the way that all legs naturally do?

I couldn’t get dressed in the morning without worrying about the flaws my clothes would highlight, I couldn’t sit down without panicking about how many rolls were showing through my shirt, I couldn’t relax with my friends without worrying about how they might be judging me. Nearly everything that I did was shadowed with self-doubt and concern about how everyone else may be perceiving me. And honestly, it was exhausting.

Society’s depictions of beauty are absurd and part of being a teenage girl is brutally comparing yourself to the attainable standards of the media. But I never quite understood where my overwhelming self-hatred stemmed from. It wasn’t like I was bullied, or told by my parents that my worth was dependent on my looks, or even so much as questioned for my taste in clothing. There wasn’t one instance that I could recall where someone else made me feel self-conscious; it all seemed to come from my own warped perception of myself.

But one day, when I was much older, it clicked. I had run in to one of my mom’s old friends at the grocery store one summer when I was visiting from college. We were catching up and making awkward small talk when she said:

“You are so beautiful, just like your mother.”

It had been a few months since I had received this compliment, no one in my college community knew what my mom looked like so they couldn’t draw the comparison. But hearing it again opened a floodgate of emotion.

I had spent my entire life witnessing my mother’s negative self-talk. When I was told I looked just like her or complimented for having the same beautiful features as her, all I could think about were the things my mom disliked about herself.

And here I was, 20 years old standing in the middle of a grocery store and going back down the rabbit hole of insecurity that plagued me for so many years.

I was tall, just like my mom, which meant I looked awkward standing in a crowd. My facial features were so similar to my her’s, which meant I had the same ‘chicken neck’ that she had to work to cover every time she smiled. My long legs enviable, just like my mom’s, but were already showing signs of developing the same varicose veins that brought her so much shame.

Just like my mother, I couldn’t take a compliment. Just like my mother, I couldn’t see the beauty that other people saw in me. Just like my mother, I was painfully self-conscious. You think I look just like my mom? You should hear what she thinks of how she looks, she must think the same of me.

I still have a hard time understanding why my mom thinks so negatively of herself. Perhaps she had the same experience growing up; a mother who vocalized her own insecurities that resulted in her negative self-image. Unfortunately my grandmother passed away before I was born, so I am left with only speculation. My mom always talks about how she wished my grandmother was a more willing participant in photographs.

“She never liked having her picture taken, she was always the one who took the pictures. Now I only have a few photos to remember her by, I wish I had more.”

I am afraid I am destined for the same fate.

My mom would be devastated if she knew this truth, that her own insecurities were a part of the reason I was so ashamed of my body. She had worked so hard to raise me to live without the insecurities that plagued her, but was so engulfed in her own self-deprecation that she was blinded to the impact it had on me.

As I get older I love to hear that I look just like my mom, and I know I will appreciate it even more when my mom is just a memory. When people tell me I look just like my mom I think about the way I see her through my own eyes; strong, stunning, equipped with a smile that lights up a room. And if I could give my mother anything in this world it would be the ability to see herself through everyone else’s eyes too.