A spring doesn’t go by that I don’t think about a pivotal moment I had in a Macy’s dressing room.
I’d ventured to the mall with my then 18-month-old daughter, desperate for a new swimsuit before pool season began. I maneuvered the stroller, piled high with promise, into the family dressing stall, my daughter’s little head peeking out from a sea of nylon and hangers.
The fluorescents were predictably stark as I began to disrobe and jimmy myself into the first option. Looking up at my reflection, I visibly shuddered at what I saw staring back — an involuntary reflex, followed by an audible groan.
Then the negative self-talk started.
My daughter was watching me
Oh. My. God. Look at that cellulite! Are you kidding me?? I do CrossFit, for God’s sake. That is just not OK.
Shock, then disgust, gave way to a cacophony of muttered insults and curses. I’d transformed into a lunchroom mean girl, hurling insults at that horrible excuse for a human being in the mirror.
You should not be wearing a bathing suit AT ALL. Those legs. How can you show those legs?
Just then, my eye drifted beyond the horror show unfolding in front of me. I caught my little girl’s eye in the mirror and realized she was watching me. Taking me in. Taking all of this in.
Oh, no, I thought. I’m saying these things out loud.
It was under my breath, yes, but loud enough to be heard. And even if I wasn’t, I knew my body language was speaking volumes. Self-loathing. Shame. And there’s my beautiful, blank-slate angel, drinking in every moment.
I wasn’t being kind to myself
I suddenly surged with anger. This was not what I wanted to model for my daughter.
As a feminist, I’d always believed I had a responsibility to be kind, generous, and encouraging to other women. Yet there I was, treating myself worse than I’d treat any stranger on the street.
I wouldn’t perpetuate this. If my child hadn’t been there in the room with me, I might have missed the moment entirely — because until then, I hadn’t even been aware of this toxic inner dialogue.
I wanted so much more for my baby girl, who would one day stand in front of a mirror as she shopped. I wanted her to feel proud of what she saw, not become her own worst enemy, measuring herself against an impossible beauty standard that doesn’t even exist in real life. She did not deserve to learn this kind of shame.
At that moment, I decided to consciously press “pause” on my thoughts and think this through. I began coaching myself up.
I changed the tone
I imagined someone else, someone stronger and bolder and more evolved than me, standing there. I imagined this woman’s self-acceptance, self-approval, self-love, as she gazed back at herself with pride.
“Damn, I look good!” I said to myself. The voice was quiet. I wasn’t quite sure I believed it, but I continued. “I’m burning up the place!” I whispered, this time with more conviction.
Right there, standing in that small, windowless room in a leopard-print bathing suit, I practiced seeing myself with new eyes. I intentionally reprogrammed my negative self-talk. I befriended myself.
A smile started to curve at the edges of my lips as I continued gazing in the mirror, if not in full belief, then at least with amusement. This was kind of fun. I could do this.
And then something strange happened. Suddenly, I wasn’t totally hating what I saw in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t too bad either.
I imagined I was a good friend trying on this bathing suit. How would I react to her? I wouldn’t focus on any one aspect of her body, I’d take in the whole package. I’d admire her sense of style. I’d notice if the color was eye-catching. I’d make sure it was a good fit.
I actually liked what I saw
So, I stopped zeroing in on the jiggly skin and dimples, and finally saw the full me: shiny dark hair, wise golden eyes, a sturdy frame housed in a spunky, modestly sexy one-piece. I stopped obsessing over all the things I disliked and allowed myself to see the big picture.
Just then, I caught my daughter’s eye in the mirror again. She was still watching me. She beamed at me proudly.
From that day forward, I pledged never again to bully myself in front of my daughter.
I don’t always get it right on the first try. I could have a wonderful time out with my family, only to later scroll through the photos on my phone and feel that familiar gut-punch when I spot an unflattering shot. The difference is, I notice it now. And as soon as I do, I deliberately choose to redirect it. I challenge myself to find three nice things to say. Kind things. True things. Things I would say to a friend.
Because the way I speak to myself will one day become the voice my daughter hears in her own head. And I want that voice to be as strong and empowered as the woman I see in the mirror now.
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