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My favorite pursuits as a child were creative.

I loved to draw, color, paint, and write. I sang and I danced. But my most sacred secret, the one I shared with only my diary, was my obsession with acting. Oh how I yearned to be different than I was. To be beautiful and provocative, special, like the women I watched every night on television. Someday, dear diary, I wrote, fans will chant my name. There was only one problem: my fat body.

I was 11 years old the day I stepped on a scale at my pediatrician’s office and it went thunk. The doctor tapped the metal slide thingy to the right, to the right again. Then, she frowned at my mom.

Mom tried. She stocked the pantry with fruits and veggies, reminded me not to have seconds, that certain foods weren’t on my diet, and ordered me outside to play. I tried hard to be good. Of course I wanted to look like other girls my age and those famous actresses I envied. In the end, it didn’t matter because I was weak. I loved sweets and when I begged Dad, he would buy them for me. Always, I fell short of doing what needed to be done. Such a disappointment, not that anyone said so out loud.

By the time I got married, I’d been riding the diet roller coaster and striving for the unattainable for close to two decades—the unseen patterns around failure and disappointment now my unconscious, ingrained modus operandi. My husband loved my curves, but I despised my imperfections. Big hips, thick thighs, rounded belly. I hated having three different size clothes in my closet, and being able to discourse with anyone over the relative merits of Weight Watchers versus Overeaters Anonymous, Jenny Craig versus Nutrisystem.

Little girl fantasies had fallen by the wayside, too. The pursuit of art, I grew up to understand, belonged solely to the proficient. To those who could bill for their talent and time. To those with the “right” stuff, whatever that stuff was. So I moved on, burying the truest version of myself under alternating layers of self-improvement projects, avoidance, and denial—the guise of Appropriate Adulting.

After my daughter was born, for years I tried to do the opposite of what had been done to me. I eschewed making comments about Faith’s body, making food the enemy, and making her mind preoccupied with numbers. Calories, pounds, pant sizes. I delighted in her boundless creativity. She loved to draw, color, paint, and write. She sang and she danced. Loved to act. But I simply could not abide disappointing her, and I’d acquiesce when she asked for a treat. Not always, just often enough that her pediatrician would mention her perfect health but higher than average weight at every checkup. I felt helpless and ashamed. My efforts had been seemingly futile.

Faith was diagnosed with an eating disorder when she was 13 years old. Soon, she’d say she was a disappointment and I’d be unable to convince her otherwise. Treatment. Therapy. Appointments. Month after month, across from my therapist, I’d cry. “How did this happen?” Every week, my therapist would ask me what I could do to take care of myself. Every week, incredulous, I’d blow my nose. “Only a selfish mother would prioritize herself while her child languished.” I completely missed the point that my therapist was encouraging me to do exactly what I wanted my daughter to do.

Unworthy, failure, loser. I berated myself, silently, of course. At the time, self-flagellation made sense. To facilitate Faith’s treatment, I practically chained myself to my computer, researching, studying, phoning. I was determined to fix…the…problem. I read books, consulted experts, and disconnected from family and friends. That I could not control the trajectory of Faith’s illness sent me reeling. Then, to sooth my despair, I’d watch hours of television with a pile of fatty food.

During that first year, Faith wasn’t getting better, and I gained 40 pounds.

One day, after many months of daily repetition, I was morose and embittered. Fatter than ever. Finally, I realized that I was bone weary of being mean to myself. The relentless cycle of striving, failing, and being mean to myself had helped exactly nothing. In fact, the pattern had harmed me and though I couldn’t say how or why, I knew it had also harmed my daughter. I finally understood why my therapist had been asking me what I could do to take care of myself. I could not do Faith’s work; I could only do my own work.

I could reclaim my right to be fully me. I could uncover my authenticity, prioritize my well-being. Claim my agency, and take responsibility for myself. I could learn how to dismantle invisible patterns and replace them with intentional, conscious choices—the means to the end of supporting my daughter on her journey to do the same.

So I asked myself what I could do to actually take care of myself, and this time, I ignored old whispers about whipping my fat ass into shape. Instead, I waited for an answer to bubble up from deep in my core. Images came to mind. I remembered joyful moments from my childhood and from Faith’s. Time spent singing, drawing, and coloring, hunched over pristine white paper with a rainbow of crayons and markers. Paints. Deep in my gut, a tickle-like sensation formed, spreading up and out to my fingers. They itched with longing for creative expression.

A mixed media journal, brushes, and acrylic paint. Mod Podge, glitter glue, and washi-tape. I started simply, cutting imagery and words from books, catalogues, and magazines. Onto the white paper, I layered texture and sentiment. I didn’t know what I was doing, but that didn’t matter. I followed my intuition. There were no rules, only the freedom to fill up the space without fear of judgment or criticism. Glee!

I made pages about my enoughness, permission, and surrender. Fingers hovering over lemon yellow and calypso teal settled churning thoughts. I was fully present to the moment. On one page after the next, I found refuge in the act of creation. Each piece was a reflection of my journey toward self-acceptance. Messy. Imperfect. Flawed.

Mistakes, I began to see, were often my favorite part of a page. They were opportunities. Beautiful in their own way. Look at me go, I’d think. I had the right to take up space, to love the art I made. And if my journal pages were more than the sum of their parts, wasn’t I?

If I could love my art unconditionally couldn’t I love myself and my body the same way? Worth has no conditions. I said those words out loud to myself and to my daughter. Sometimes, Faith and I made art together. Snippets of time when difficulty fell away and we were just a mom and her kid having fun with glue.

And, because healing is a bumpy road, every so often my art reflected back to me the inner demons of doubt and disgust. Goddamn, that’s ugly and I really suck at this and what a disappointment. Nothing I made was good enough. Creation was a chore to be conquered rather than a joy to be unleashed. There were projects I thought about ripping to shreds. More than once I chucked my paintbrush across the room. I wanted pretty. I wanted perfect.

But the truth I learned from wrestling with the process was this: growth is uncomfortable. If we can’t stand discomfort in an art journal, we can’t stand it in real life. And, as soon as you taste the liberation on the other side of making a choice to breathe and keep going, you know there’s no reason to turn back.

Twelve years have passed. I still show up at my art table, excited by the limitless promise of blank paper and colorful supplies. I’m still at my heaviest weight and my art practice still reminds me that love has no conditions. Faith is in recovery, living her best life. Sometimes, we get the opportunity to make art together, and we remind one another to focus on progress, that being here, now and healthy is all that matters. We’re closer than we’ve ever been, and know this relationship we forged, on our own and together, is downright miraculous.

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