When food has been your friend, your therapist, your enemy, and your deep dark secret for the better part of your life, pulling it away flippantly is tantamount to taking away a toddler’s security blanket and wonder why they are crying.
I’ve said my piece about the tricky and delicate act of balancing body positivity with weight loss, and self-love and self-change. It is tricky, but it is doable. And in this quest I’ve been poo-flung from both sides: from “thinspo” fat shamers who admonish me for getting “this size” in the first place, and so-called “body positive advocates” who de-value my feminism for wanting to shed a few pounds.
But by far, the worst mindset comes from the mouths of some when I speak about my food or exercise regimen.
I do the “insufferable” calorie-counting thing, in conjunction with the “weird” low-carb thing, and work out 10-12 hours a week. It WORKS for me. It’s tough. But it works. However, like clockwork, a person (who’s never suffered a weight problem or desire to down a bowl of brownie batter while sitting in their closet) will come along and smugly declare:
“You don’t have to go to such extremes. Just eat in moderation. Just cut down and you won’t have to do these crazy diets.”
Let me tell you about the history of Little Bear and food. I grew up in a Sicilian and Jewish family that celebrated, mourned, and socialised every which way with food. But at the same time, they demonised it. (Post continues after gallery.)