Does the mirror reveal the truth of our worth — or expose ideals built on lies?

Five More Pounds

Faigy Spector

The second thing my mother said after she visited me post-birth was, “Five pounds this birth, five pounds next one, and before you know it, none of your clothing will fit.”

This was her mantra as long as I can remember: “Yes, she looks beautiful in her wedding gown, but just another five pounds…” “The secret is to weigh yourself every week and catch it before it gets to five pounds…” All of your life, every meal you eat, every time you join a simchah, you are teetering at the edge of a precipice. Just five more pounds and you will no longer measure up, no longer be worthy.

I remember one time when I made the grade, dressed up for a simchah. My mother arrived, took a look, and said, “Wow, you look like you’re a size six!” Her tone implied that I had reached the pinnacle of feminine achievement.

I fought the good womanly fight for many years, but at some point the usual tactics stopped working. I am long past “just another five pounds.” I will never again be a size six (and never a size eight, either).

Really, it shouldn’t matter. Decades after my wedding, I don’t need my sheva brachos clothing to fit. (Women don’t wear suits these days anyway.) I’m a very normal size for a woman my age and stage, and with the right clothing and grooming I can look — well, maybe not skinny, but still good.

More than that, I know what really matters and I’ve been very blessed. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful family. I belong to a low-key, nonjudgmental community and am a valued employee with an influential position.

But something inside me still feels less worthy, less successful, less deserving, because I can’t figure out how to get back to those ideal proportions. (Believe me, I’ve tried endless, tortured attempts to find the right diet, cut out the wrong foods, and perfect the ideal exercise plan to finally get back to my thinner self.)

Something ugly inside of me still twists in pain when I consider all those women who can just wear whatever’s in the store window without worrying what parts of them stick out too much, who can just walk into a room with easy confidence, who don’t agonize over photo sessions or weddings or new, unflattering clothing styles.

It’s so easy to pin this all on my mother (she’d probably pin it back on her mother), but I’m a big girl now, and at this point the voice is my own. It makes no sense, but this is not about logic.

I know it’s shallow, I know it’s silly, I know it’s destructive, but I can’t figure out how to shut off this voice that keeps linking my worth to my weight, keeps me convinced that more makes me less.