A couple of weeks ago, I learned that I am pre-diabetic. That doesn’t come as a total surprise; in my pregnancy, I developed gestational diabetes. For those months, I pricked my finger several times a day, tracked my numbers, and significantly adjusted how I ate.
It was an easy task, considering my motivation. At the same time, in the days after giving birth, I indulged in a daily chocolate chip cookie from a local coffee shop. As I started to learn the rhythms of motherhood, it tasted as good as anything I’ve ever had.
Fast forward and here I am again, considering exactly what I’m putting into my body as I try to figure out how to keep myself as healthy as possible. There’s an irony there: as a child, teenager, and young adult who was a product of societal norms that dictated waifs as the ultimate beauty, I struggled for years with disordered eating, mentally tracking everything I ate, habitually counting grams of fat because back then, fat was evil and carbs were fine. In my house in college, we ate giant bowls of pasta with fat-free sauce; only drank skim milk; marinated boneless, skinless chicken breasts in fat-free salad dressing. I had a roommate who doused everything in barbecue sauce, not because she liked the taste, and I chose Junior Mints when I wanted chocolate because there were only 2.5 grams of fat in the entire box.
It wasn’t just me; I have an ongoing conversation with one of my best friends, one of those years-long contemplations that we return to without missing a beat, about how she experienced the exact same thing, a time zone away and a stranger to me at that point in our lives. It makes me sad to think about it now, how much space in my brain I’ve wasted, thinking about food in that way. I saw it not as fuel for my body and its own reason to celebrate, but instead as something to carefully orchestrate and even fear. I never crossed over into an actual eating disorder – I probably have my mom to thank for that, who steeled me to appreciate whole foods by setting that example for me early in life – but I spent years wrapped up in it all.
Anyway, it was a long time before I deconstructed any of that. It took intentional effort to stop looking at labels and to start paying attention to how my body felt; to stop believing my value was inherently in my size. I made some decisions early in adulthood that helped me remember the joy in food, among them choosing to live on a farm where good food was revered and indeed adored. In California, it became easier to revel in the flavors of abundance: apricots in early summer, crisp apples and juicy pears in the fall, local and organic producers of everything from olive oil and dairy products to figs and golden raspberries.
Traveling abroad, too, gave me a different perspective on food. In Europe, to ask for a latte with low-fat milk was a quick way to earn a look of horror. Instead, I fell in love with my morning café crème in Paris, elevated further by the shatter of the fresh pastry alongside it. In the Czech Republic, I ate crimson-colored cherries set out by a hostel’s proprietor every day; the memories of that bright bowl full of fruit, sitting atop a table made of golden wood and illuminated by long summer light through the wide windows, will stay with me for the rest of my life. Over time, I released myself from the prison of constantly considering how I ate. In the process, I became happier, more relaxed about my life and more engaged in it.
The truth is, it is critically important for this society to pressure women to succumb to these ideals, arbitrarily set and absolutely limiting, in order to control how we value and see ourselves. The standards change, certainly, and they have become more inclusive in my lifetime. Yet the pressures now, spread so freely over social media and in a way that is hard to escape, still encourage a fake uniformity – false eyelashes, contour makeup, elaborately-straightened hair – that denies not only true beauty but also the fierce power of individuality. Women are encouraged to obsess over perfecting the lighting and filters in selfies, rather than perfecting the art of defending our rights and using our voices.
In any case, learning that my body now has some limits that really are important to pay attention to has been humbling. This time, it has nothing to do with appearances, and everything to do with health. And it’s a balance, though it tips very much in favor of eating well.
When I learned I had gestational diabetes, at 10 weeks of pregnancy thanks to early testing, I made a switch so drastic that I had to be told to in fact eat more carbs as my child grew. It was the era of the pandemic and everything was upside-down anyway; the absent nostalgia I felt for an idea of how I would eat freely during a someday-pregnancy disappeared in the reality of the suddenly-realized, long-held dream of a child growing inside of me. I knew I would do anything for him; monitoring what I ate and my blood sugar felt like a small price to pay. Besides, everything was different during my pregnancy than I thought it would be anyway; not only was Covid-19 preventing such things as prenatal yoga and groups of pregnant people gathering together, I was also in the midst of a divorce and living alone.
After giving birth, I resorted to my old, sweet-tooth habits, buoyed by the incredible, raw power I found in n nursing, loving, and caring wholly for a new person. I tried to be cautious about my food but I also wanted to balance that, conscious that my little one would soon follow my modeling on how to live a life of joy and health.
I knew that I’d be tested annually for diabetes, as having it during pregnancy triggered a higher risk of developing it for the rest of my life, and so when I tested as prediabetic the other day, I understood the assignment: changing how I eat is now a lifelong task. Doing it in a way that appears seamless to my child is paramount, not because I don’t want him to understand intentionality but instead because I want him to see me experiencing my life without limits. I want him to understand that even if I can’t do some things, even if – in particular – I don’t eat certain foods or treats, it has no bearing on who I am, how I play with him, or the way that we can experience the world together.
As far as I can tell, we have one chance to live. I want to do it well. I want, so badly, to do this well.
