Dear Mom,

I’m over it. Really. I’m not still upset with you. I’ve moved on from the embarrassment and shame that came with the way you introduced me to my changing body. I’m not still grossed out by the diagrams in those books. I swear I don’t regularly think about the time you taught me how to use a tampon. Really. I’m totally over it.

Ok, maybe not entirely.

Scotland, at eight years old, has started asking me about menstruation. She came to me last week and asked, “Mom? Where did you get your period?” At first, I was quite worried. Does she think I bought it at the store or something? But then I realized she was asking where I was when I got my period. She had read a story recently about a girl who got her first period while at the airport and was curious where I was when mine came. This prompted a very organic and healthy conversation about periods in general. At the end she told me she can’t wait to get hers. That she feels like it’s a sign that she’s going to be an adult (yes, my eight-year-old is already wanting to be an adult) and she’s SO excited.

This got me thinking a lot about my own experience of being a little girl in a rapidly growing body. And in my opinion, you went too far.

I know. I know. You tried. You did your best. You did what you thought was best for me. I believe you wanted to provide me with an experience so unlike your own that you ended up going way too far in the opposite direction. But Mom? I’m starting to think your decision to go that far caused a long-lasting rift between us. The more I think about that time in my life, I can see a clear point of no return in our relationship.

You bought the books about puberty. You announced my period to a room full of moms and girls from my school at the mother/daughter tea. You came at me so hard with all the information and tools that I very quickly pulled away from you. Did you realize that I never allowed you in store fitting rooms with me after that? I never allowed you in the doctor’s office with me again. Whenever possible, whenever I had the choice, I kept my body and everything happening to it private from you.

My issues regarding my own body are not all your fault. You really did try your best. And you had good intentions. At the same time, between your own body issues, my hitting puberty in the mid 90s, and your intense lessons on puberty, I was provided with the perfect recipe for a plethora of body issues of my own. Eating disorders that I’m just now learning were legitimate despite me always thinking they weren’t textbook enough. Self-hate that led to years of substance abuse. Years of extremely unhealthy relationships with the opposite sex as a way to feel any sense of happiness in my own skin. And above all, an unwillingness to talk about my body in any normal way. To keep things about my body to myself. To pretend like there is nothing to address. No issues. No weird bodily functions. Feeling off or sick or abnormal in anyway became, well, normal. I developed this idea that it was best to keep matters of the female body private. It wasn’t worth the risk of embarrassment or shame or a lengthy discussion.

Turns out, in so many ways, it’s still easiest to keep things private. As I’m currently approaching perimenopause, I’m learning that the world still doesn’t openly talk about the various phases of a woman’s life. Women still keep their changes in their bodies to themselves. Hording all the side effects of getting older. No warnings to the next generation. No advice to the next class of women who will lay in bed drenched in sweat wondering what the hell is happening to their bodies. 

I’m starting to wonder if the problem is less about how moms and daughters discuss changing bodies and more about the lack of a social conversation. When I got my period, though your tactics legitimately scarred me, the worst part were the whispers from other girls at school. I was one of two girls in my grade who got their periods that early (at least to my newly 11-year-old knowledge at the time) and it was not seen as cool or something to be proud of. It was most definitely something to hide or risk ongoing humiliation.

I very quickly developed a desire to hide my body. To be embarrassed of my body. There was no pride. No excitement. No self-love. 

This is what I want to avoid for my own daughter. I want my daughter to love her body and never feel shame regarding the sometimes truly uncomfortable changes she will go through. Lucky for her, and for me, our period culture (at least where we live) has seemingly shifted in the right direction. Here she is at eight years old excited about the prospect of puberty. She’s excited because it’s been normalized. I don’t hide it from her. She’s always known that I get my own period. I also don’t educate her about it every time I get my own period. She reads countless stories in her books about girls getting their periods. Some of those stories include moms and grandmas who embarrass the main character and she’s already grateful that I haven’t embarrassed her. Not yet at least.

Teaching Scotland about her own body, and guiding her through her evolving body, will surely come with ups and downs. I’m guessing, no matter how hard I try, I will make a mistake at some point. It’s not an easy task to help a young girl through this time in her life, especially if she happens to also be approaching that time when she wants nothing to do with her mother. But I can minimize the scarring. I know I can. And I can do that by making a conscious effort to not embarrass her and to prepare her to hopefully never feel shame. 

I’m not even sure if it’s possible to eliminate the possibility of feeling shame, but I must try. I must try because the shame I felt regarding my own body at a young age stuck with me for many years. In fact, it’s still here. It’s quieter now, but still here. This is what I want to protect her from. 

Can I? Can I successfully protect my child from shame and embarassment? My guess is that I can’t protect her from her peers trying to shame her. I can’t protect her from other girls saying things to intentionally make her feel bad. I can’t protect her from what happens in the bathroom at school. But I can help build her confidence up so much that when those moments do come, she’ll be strong enough to not let it bother her. She’ll be able to brush it off and stand taller and feel proud in her own skin. Maybe instilling this confidence early on is what will help her later in life too. Her body will change so many times in life and I never want her to feel like these changes are bad. I want her to love her own body unconditionally. Because I know how painful it is to never feel that unconditional self-love. How detrimental it is to start with self-hate at such a young age. I know how challenging it is to grow from shame and how much work it takes to find strength in weakness.

Perhaps what she needs more than anything is a mom who is confident. A mom who exudes confidence and self-love. I must lead by example. I must be the proud female I want her to be.

Shit. I’m sorry. All this talk about what you did wrong and I’m just now seeing the bigger picture. How could you possibly help me through that time in my life when you were so insecure in your own skin? How could you teach me about body positivity and confidence and self-love when you were so miserable? Oh, Mom. This really sucks. I’m so sorry we never helped each other. I so wish we could have talked about our mutual hate towards our own bodies. If only I had a time machine. I’d go back to me as a child, and I’d tell you how beautiful you were. I’d tell you how much I wanted to be like you. I’d tell you how much I loved you. Maybe then you would have learned to love yourself more and by example I’d learn to love myself too.

Sadly, I don’t have a time machine. I can’t go back and tell you all of that. But I can tell myself. I can tell myself how beautiful I am. I can stand taller and prouder and exude more confidence in my own skin. I can lead by example for my own daughter. It might be too late for you, but it’s not for her. And I guess, I’m finally seeing that it’s not too late for me. 

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel