Softly Unseen

When I was around 11 or 12, my mom made an appointment with my doctor. She thought something might be wrong with my hips. She had noticed that one of my legs kicked out when I walked. What she didn’t notice was that it only happened when I wore shorts.

It’s funny now, looking back how she missed that detail.

My thighs touched when I walked, and it made my shorts bunch up. Kicking my leg out was my way of fixing it without using my hands. It was either that or walk around looking like I was pulling out a giant wedgie.

I knew what was happening, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Not to my mom. Not to the woman I saw as flawless. My beautiful, soft-spoken, homecoming queen mother. Somehow, sitting through an awkward doctor’s visit felt easier than explaining something that, to me, felt wrapped in shame.

Of course, the doctor found nothing wrong. Not with my hips, anyway.

Growing up, I loved watching my mom get ready. I even liked the smell of her cigarette smoke drifting from the bathroom . It meant she was there, kind of available, putting on her makeup. She was the most beautiful person I knew. Kind, gentle, forgiving. In my eyes, she was perfect.

I just wish she could’ve seen herself the way I saw her.

Instead, I watched her pick herself apart. Her body was never thin enough, her hair never full enough. In her reflection, she saw someone undeserving of love. And so I learned, without anyone saying it out loud, that it was normal to think about your body all the time. To always feel like you needed to shrink and be perfect.

If my mom couldn’t love her reflection, how could she possibly love mine?

She was smaller than me, and I was reminded of that often. My stepdad liked to point it out :

“If you’d just lose weight, you could get a boyfriend.”

“Lose weight, Jenn. Your face is so pretty.”

“You really could be a model if you’d lose weight”

My mom never said those things. She never criticized me outright. But still, I felt the message sink in. If she saw herself as not good enough, and I saw myself in her, then I must not be good enough either.

I grew up believing that my value was tied to the number on the scale. Or how well I could perform. I don’t think I was ever really seen for who I was underneath all of that.

Did they ever notice how loyal I was?

How I always stood up for the kid sitting alone?

How the smallest things could make me light up inside?

Did they appreciate that I wanted to protect my siblings from everything at all costs?

I wonder if they knew how loving I was?

Sometimes I wonder if anyone ever truly saw me. Not for how I looked. But for who I was trying to be.

Over time, that way of thinking grew into something heavier. I started to believe that the moment I walked into a room, the only thing anyone saw was my weight. It didn’t matter what I said, how kind I was, or what I’d accomplished… the number on the scale felt like it came first.

And with that belief came another one: that I had to settle. That love, real love, wasn’t for people like me. I told myself I should be grateful for scraps, for attention that barely felt kind, for the bottom of the barrel. Because why would anyone choose me?

What still amazes me is that, despite all of that, I’ve achieved so much. I’ve reached goals I once thought were out of reach. I’ve shown up, I’ve delivered, I’ve made people proud. But deep down, I know why I worked so hard.

It wasn’t just ambition. It was survival.

Somewhere along the way, I internalized this idea: If I can perform well enough, if I can be the hardest worker in the room, maybe then I’ll be enough.