Under a photo of my husband and me in swimsuits, my own daughter left a string of cruel remarks: I decided she needed a lesson
I have never been embarrassed about how I look. Yes, I’m sixty now, no longer the fresh-faced girl from a glossy magazine cover, and my body is far from perfect—but I’ve always accepted myself as I am.
I have lines on my face, a soft stomach, and thighs that once made me proud but now show the years. All of that tells the story of my life. And my husband has always told me I’m beautiful. Even after 35 years of marriage, he sometimes looks at me as if we just met yesterday.
But recently, that confidence cracked. For the first time ever, I felt ashamed of myself.
It began with what seemed like an innocent photo. My husband and I had taken a rare vacation by the sea, a precious escape from our daily grind. Standing together on the shore in our swimsuits, his arm around my waist, me smiling—it was a moment I wanted to capture and share with friends online.
Yes, I knew the swimsuit showed every imperfection. But honestly, so what? That’s no reason to hide.
Within hours, the photo drew likes and warm comments: “What a lovely couple!” and “So wonderful you’ve stayed together for so many years!” I was smiling—until I spotted one comment that made my stomach drop.
It was from my daughter.
She wrote: “Mom, at your age, dressing like that isn’t appropriate. And you really shouldn’t be showing off your fat sides. You should just delete the photo.”
I froze. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over me.
It wasn’t a joke. She meant it. My chest tightened. I had carried her inside me, stayed up at night when she was sick, fed her, walked her to school, helped her get into college—and now my own daughter would write something so cruel to me.
That was the breaking point. I did something that, to this day, I don’t regret. But I also realized I’d have to learn all over again how to accept myself.
I stared at the screen for a long time before typing my reply:
“Sweetheart, these are our genes. In twenty years, you’ll look just like me. And I truly hope that by then, you’ll be wise enough not to be ashamed of your body.”
I hi:t send and deleted her comment.
But that wasn’t enough. Since she had chosen to humil:iate me publicly, I felt I had every right to set boundaries. I stopped answering her calls. And when, a couple of weeks later, she asked me for money, I replied coolly:
“Oh, sorry. I already spent it all on food—that’s where my fat sides come from.”
She was offended. I honestly didn’t care. Maybe I’d gone a little too far, but at that moment, I was protecting myself.
Still, after that incident, I found myself eyeing my reflection more critically. Sometimes, when I put on a swimsuit, I instinctively cover my stomach with a towel.
It makes me angry with myself—because I know the real issue isn’t my body. It’s that women too often let others dictate how we should live and look.
I taught my daughter a lesson, yes. But I realize there’s still a lesson I need to learn: how to stop feeling ashamed of who I am.
