Through the Glass of My Reflection: A Journey with Body Image

“Why can’t you just eat like a normal person, Sarah?” My mom’s voice cut through the silence of our tiny kitchen, her words sharp as the knife she used to slice apples for my brother’s lunch. I sat hunched over my untouched oatmeal, knuckles white around the spoon. I was fifteen, and the world felt like it was waging a war against my body.

I looked up, blinking away tears. “I’m not hungry.”

She sighed, frustration coloring every syllable. “You’re always on some new diet. Just eat. You’re making everyone miserable.”

My little brother Ben glanced at me, his mouth twisted in sympathy. He was only ten, but he understood more than I wished he did. “Sarah’s fine, Mom. Leave her alone.”

“Stay out of this, Ben.” Mom’s voice softened. “Sarah, honey, no one’s perfect. You know that, right? People love you for who you are. Not how you look.”

But I didn’t believe her. Not when every magazine, every TikTok, every whispered conversation in the locker room told me I was too much—too wide, too soft, too wrong. My best friend, Jamie, was everything I wasn’t: slim, effortless, confident. She tried to include me in everything, but I always felt like her shadow, the before photo to her after.

I remember the worst day as if it’s seared into my bones. It was sophomore year, and we were shopping for prom dresses. Jamie twirled in a lilac gown, the saleslady beaming at her. I’d just emerged from the fitting room, my cheeks burning. The dress clung in all the places I hated. Jamie’s smile faltered. “You look…nice. Maybe we can try another store?”

The saleslady didn’t even bother hiding her look. “We have some fuller-figured options in the back.”

I muttered an excuse and fled to the bathroom, staring at myself in the harsh fluorescent light, heart thundering. I could feel the words of every person who’d ever commented on my size echoing in my ears—family, strangers, even teachers. “Don’t you want to be healthy?” “Should you really eat that?” “You’d be so pretty if you just lost a little weight.”

That night, I skipped dinner. My mom noticed. “Sarah, please. This isn’t healthy.”

But what was healthy? I’d been on diets since I was eight: Weight Watchers, keto, intermittent fasting. Each time, I failed. Each time, I hated myself more for failing.

The next year, things got worse. I stopped going out with friends. I deleted every photo of myself. I spent hours scrolling through Instagram, comparing my thighs, my cheeks, my arms to girls I’d never meet. My grades slipped. My dad tried to help, in his own clumsy way. “You know, I was a chubby kid too. It gets better.”

But I didn’t believe him, either. Not when my own reflection felt like an enemy.

Jamie tried to help. One night, after a particularly rough week, she came over with ice cream and a stack of old movies. “You know I love you, right?” she said, handing me a spoon. “You don’t have to earn that. Not by being smaller, not by eating less. You’re enough.”

I wanted to believe her. But the next morning, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, pinching the skin on my stomach, hating myself for every bite.

Family dinners became battlegrounds. Mom worried, Dad tiptoed. Even Ben, sweet Ben, stopped asking if I wanted to play video games. I was angry all the time: at them, at myself, at a world that seemed to only value girls like Jamie.

It all came to a head on a cold February night. I overheard my parents arguing in the living room.

“She’s not eating again, Mike. I don’t know what to do.”

“She needs help, Laura. Real help. Not another diet.”

“I know, but what if it’s my fault? I was always worried about her weight as a kid. Did I do this to her?”

I pressed my ear to the door, my heart aching. I wanted to run in, to say it wasn’t their fault, that it was just the world, just me, just everything. But I couldn’t.

The next day, I finally broke down in front of Jamie. “I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed, the words tumbling out. “I’m so tired. I just want to feel normal.”

She hugged me tight. “Let’s get help. Together.”

Therapy wasn’t a magic fix. The first few sessions, I barely spoke. But slowly, I learned to unpack years of shame and fear. My therapist, Dr. Reynolds, helped me see how diet culture and impossible beauty standards had shaped my self-worth.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, week after week. “It’s okay to take up space.”

My family tried, in their own flawed ways, to support me. Mom started cooking meals we could share without stress. Dad made a rule: no diet talk at the table. Ben drew me a picture of a superhero with my face, cape and all. For the first time, I started to believe I could be okay, even if my body never fit the mold.

Graduation came. Jamie and I dressed up, took photos, and danced until our feet hurt. I still felt the old pangs of insecurity, but I didn’t let them ruin the night. I smiled—really smiled—for the first time in years.

Now, at twenty-three, living in a tiny apartment in Columbus, I still struggle. Some days, I skip meals or avoid mirrors. But on other days, I catch my reflection and don’t flinch. I call my mom, thank her for loving me even when I couldn’t love myself. I text Jamie, scroll through photos, laugh with Ben over FaceTime. The war inside me isn’t over, but I’m learning to fight for peace instead.

Sometimes I wonder: how many of us are waging silent battles with our reflections? What would happen if we all stopped judging our worth by the numbers on a scale—or by the cruel words we learned to repeat to ourselves?