How Challenging My Own Fatphobia Will Make Me a Better Parent

Parenting has a funny way of turning your “I’m totally chill about this” beliefs into a full-blown
mirrorpreferably one with harsh bathroom lighting and no mercy. For me, one of those mirrors has been
fatphobia: the reflexive assumptions, jokes, anxieties, and “health” comments that our culture teaches
us to aim at larger bodies (including our own), then pretend it’s just “motivation.”

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: even if I never say the word fat out loud, kids can still learn it
as a moral category. They pick it up the way they pick up slangthrough tone, facial expressions, what
we praise, what we fear, what we “fix,” and what we whisper about when we think they aren’t listening.
Challenging my own fatphobia isn’t a trendy self-improvement project. It’s a parenting skill. It makes
my home saferfor my child’s body image, relationship with food, mental health, and basic sense that
their worth isn’t hanging from a scale like a hostage note.

Also: I’d like my kid to grow up with fewer “core memories” involving a relative pinching their cheek
and saying something weird at a holiday meal. If that’s too much to ask, I at least want the tools to
shut it down with grace… or, when necessary, with the verbal equivalent of a gently placed traffic cone.

What Fatphobia Looks Like in Everyday Parenting (Even When You Mean Well)

Fatphobia isn’t only mean comments or cartoon villains who eat entire turkeys with their hands.
It’s often quieter: a set of assumptions that thinner equals healthier, more disciplined, more lovable,
more “successful,” and that larger bodies are problems to solve. In parenting, that can show up as:

• “Good food / bad food” language that turns eating into a morality play.
• Compliments that prioritize size (“You look so skinny!”) instead of strength, style, joy, or character.
• Fear-based health talk that frames bodies as ticking time bombs.
• Self-criticism in front of kids (“Ugh, I look huge,” “I need to be good tomorrow”).
• Jokes about other people’s bodieseven “light” ones, even about strangers, even about celebrities.
• Equating movement with punishment (“I have to work that off”).
• Medical conversations that center weight instead of symptoms, behaviors, and wellbeing.

None of this requires a villain mustache. It just requires being human in a culture that sells thinness
like it’s a bundle deal: happiness + control + social acceptance, now with free shipping.

Why This Matters: Kids Don’t Just Hear UsThey Absorb Us

Research and clinical guidance increasingly recognize that weight stigma (including teasing, bullying,
and biased language) can harm mental health, increase stress, and undermine health-promoting behaviors.
For children and teens, weight-based victimization is linked with distress, low self-esteem, poor body
image, and disordered eating patterns. In other words: shame doesn’t make kids healthier. It makes them
hurtand often makes healthy habits harder to sustain.

And kids don’t need to be the direct target to learn the lesson. When children hear adults mock a larger
body on TV, criticize their own stomach in the mirror, or praise weight loss like it’s an Olympic medal,
they learn the same equation: body size determines value. Then they apply itto classmates, to siblings,
and eventually to themselves.

This is where challenging my own fatphobia becomes a parenting superpower. Not because I become perfectly
enlightened and float through Target like a serene monk. But because I get better at noticing the scripts
I inheritedand rewriting them before my kid memorizes the lines.

Step One: Spot Your “Diet Culture Autopilot”

Start with curiosity, not a courtroom. Fatphobia is taught; noticing it is learned. A practical way to begin
is to track your “autopilot” moments for a week:

1) The words you use about food

Listen for moral language: “clean,” “junk,” “cheat,” “be good,” “earn dessert,” “I’m being bad.”
Those phrases can teach kids that eating is a testand that pleasure needs permission.
Try swapping in neutral, body-friendly language:

• Instead of “bad food,” try “sometimes food” or “fun food.”
• Instead of “be good,” try “let’s choose what helps our bodies feel good today.”
• Instead of “I can’t,” try “I’m choosing not to right now.”

2) The way you talk about bodies (yours, theirs, everyone’s)

Kids learn body commentary the way they learn sarcasm: not from a lecture, but from repetition.
If you routinely criticize your thighs, kids don’t hear “I dislike my thighs.” They hear
“thighs are a valid reason to dislike yourself.”

3) The “health halo” assumptions you make

Health is influenced by many factors: genetics, sleep, stress, environment, access to care, movement,
nutrition, and more. Body size can be associated with some outcomes, but it isn’t a simple moral report card.
Autopilot fatphobia often tries to compress all that complexity into one shortcut: “smaller = better.”
Parenting gets healthier when we refuse shortcuts that harm.

Step Two: Build a Home Where Bodies Aren’t Ranking Each Other

The goal isn’t to pretend bodies don’t exist. The goal is to make body diversity boringin the best way.
Like eye color. Like shoe size. Like the fact that some people can lick their elbow and some people are
liars on the internet.

Make respect the rule, not the reward

Teach a simple standard: People deserve dignity at every size. That means no body-based teasing,
no “funny” nicknames, no comments framed as concern when they’re actually judgment.

Stock your environment with body-diverse messages

Look at the books, shows, and accounts your family consumes. Are larger bodies present only as jokes, villains,
or “before” pictures? Balance that out. Kids should see body diversity paired with competence, kindness, humor,
leadership, and lovenot as a makeover project.

Practice media literacy out loud

You don’t need a TED Talk. You need a running commentary that sounds like:
“That ad is trying to sell a feeling,” “Filters change faces,” “That’s one kind of body, not the only kind.”
Media pressure is real; naming it gives kids a shield.

Step Three: Learn What to Say When Kids Say the Quiet Part Out Loud

At some point, a child will say something like, “That person is fat,” or “Am I fat?” or “I need to go on a diet,”
and your soul may briefly leave your body. Breathe. This is not a pop quiz. It’s a doorway.

Scenario A: “That person is fat.”

Try: “Bodies come in lots of sizes. ‘Fat’ can be a describing word, but we never use body words to be mean.
What matters most is treating people with respect.”

Scenario B: “Am I fat?”

The best response depends on age and the emotion underneath the question. Often the real question is:
“If I’m fat, will you still love me? Will people still like me? Am I safe?”

Try: “I love you exactly as you are. Your body is allowed to change as you grow. Let’s talk about what made you ask.”

Scenario C: “I feel ugly because of my body.”

Try: “I’m really glad you told me. That feeling is heavy. Who or what has been sending you that message?
Let’s look at it togetherand let’s also talk about what your body does for you every day.”

Scenario D: A relative says, “You’re getting chubby!”

Congratulations, you have been invited to the Boundary Olympics. Here are a few medal-worthy scripts:

• Polite: “We don’t comment on bodies in our family.”
• Direct: “Please don’t talk about my child’s weight.”
• Redirect: “Tell them about school/their art/their new obsession with dinosaurs.”
• Private follow-up: “I know you meant well, but body comments aren’t helpful and we’re not doing that.”

If you worry about being “rude,” remember: protecting a child from shame is not rude. It’s parenting.

Step Four: Make “Health” a Wider Door Than “Weight”

A lot of fatphobia hides inside the word health. We say “I’m just worried about health,” but what we often
mean is “I’m worried about size.” The shift is to focus on habits and wellbeingwithout tying them to worth,
attractiveness, or a specific body outcome.

Food: Aim for trust, not control

Kids thrive with structure and flexibility: regular meals and snacks, a variety of foods, and a low-drama
approach to treats. Instead of framing dessert as something you “earn,” treat it as part of normal life.
That reduces scarcity thinkingthe “I must eat all of it now” panic that can happen when certain foods are
treated like contraband.

Movement: Make it about joy, not debt repayment

Talk about movement as something that can help bodies feel strong, calm, and energizednot as punishment
for eating. “Let’s go move because it feels good” lands differently than “We need to burn that off.”

Sleep, stress, and support count too

When kids struggle, it’s rarely one thing. Sleep, stress, bullying, anxiety, neurodivergence, food access,
and family routines all matter. A weight-centered lens can miss the real issue. A wellbeing lens is more
accurateand more compassionate.

Step Five: Navigate Doctor Visits Without Turning Your Kid Into a “Project”

Healthcare can be a tricky place for body image. Some visits are wonderfully respectful. Others can feel
like your kid’s entire identity got reduced to a chart. You can advocate without turning weight into a family
headline.

• Ask for permission-based, respectful language.
  You can say: “We want to focus on health behaviors and wellbeing. Please avoid shaming language.”
• Keep conversations age-appropriate and private.
  Kids don’t need adult worry layered onto their bodies. If you have concerns, talk with the clinician privately.
• Request actionable, behavior-based guidance.
  If a clinician raises weight, you can ask: “What specific behaviors are you concerned about, and what supportive steps do you recommend?”

The parenting win here is simple: your child learns, “My body is not a problem to be solved in public.”
That lesson alone is a protective factor.

When You Mess Up (Because You Will): Repair Beats Perfection

You will eventually say something weird. You will praise weight loss on TV. You will catch yourself making a face
at your jeans. Welcome to being human. The goal is not purity; it’s repair.

A solid repair sounds like:
“Hey, I want to redo what I said earlier. I made it sound like body size is what matters, and that’s not what I believe.
Bodies change, and people deserve respect at every size. Thanks for letting me try again.”

This does two powerful things: it reduces shame (yours and theirs), and it teaches your child how to correct course
without spiraling. That’s a life skillright up there with “how to order at a restaurant” and “how to find the homework
you swear you put in your backpack.”

of Real-Life “This Is Hard” Experiences (And What They Taught Me)

The first time I realized my kid was watching my body talk wasn’t during a big, dramatic conversation. It was a Tuesday.
A completely average Tuesdayone of those days where everyone is hungry at once and the dog is convinced the mail carrier
is a criminal mastermind. I caught my reflection and muttered something about needing to “be good” with food. My kid, who
had been minding their business, looked up and said, “Why? Did you do something bad?”

That question landed like a tiny, honest meteor. Because what was I teaching without meaning to? That eating is tied to
morality. That bodies are a constant self-improvement assignment. That a person can be “bad” for having hunger, pleasure,
or softness. I tried to laugh it off (because denial is my most overused coping skill), but later I came back and said,
“You know what? I said that in a weird way. Food isn’t good or bad. People aren’t good or bad because of what they eat.”
My kid shrugged like it was no big deal. Which was the point. I wanted it to be no big deal.

Another time, we were watching a show where a bigger character was the punchlineagain. My kid giggled, then paused and
asked, “Why is that funny?” I felt a familiar impulse to move along quickly, to not make it awkward. But I remembered:
awkward is where learning lives. So I said, “Sometimes shows act like bigger bodies are automatically funny. That’s not fair.
People can be funny, but their body size isn’t a joke.” My kid nodded, and we moved on. Later, though, I noticed they started
describing characters by what they did rather than how they looked. That’s the kind of quiet progress you don’t get from lectures.

The hardest moments were the “helpful” comments from adults. A relative said something about “watching carbs,” and I felt my
brain scramble for a response that wasn’t a full-on courtroom monologue. I went with, “We’re not doing food rules with the kids.
We focus on feeling good and having a variety.” It came out calmer than I felt, which I consider a parenting miracle on par with
finding matching socks.

And then there was the moment my kid said, quietly, “I think I’m fat,” with a look that made it clear fat meant unlovable.
Everything in me wanted to rush in with “No you’re not!”because that’s what I had been trained to do, as if “fat” were the worst
thing a person could be. I swallowed that reflex and tried something truer: “Thank you for telling me. What made you think that?”
We talked about a comment at school and a video they’d seen online. We talked about bodies changing. We talked about how nobody’s
worth gets decided by a shape. I didn’t nail every word. But I stayed present. And afterward, I realized the real lesson wasn’t
the perfect sentenceit was the message: “Bring me the hard stuff. I won’t panic. I won’t make your body the enemy.”

Challenging my fatphobia has made me a better parent in a simple way: it has made my love feel less conditional. Less like a contract.
More like a home. And that’s the kind of “healthy” I want my kid to inherit.

Conclusion: The Parenting Gift of Unlearning

Challenging fatphobia is not about pretending health doesn’t matter. It’s about refusing to use shame as a tooland refusing to teach
kids that bodies are rankings. When I unlearn weight bias, I become more emotionally safe, more accurate in how I think about wellbeing,
and more capable of raising a child who respects themselves and others.

You don’t need to be perfect. You need to be willing: to notice, to pause, to repair, and to build a home where dignity is not size-dependent.
That’s how challenging my own fatphobia makes me a better parentone ordinary Tuesday at a time.