It started innocently. It always does, doesn’t it? After the baby, I felt… lost. Like my body wasn’t my own anymore. Like my life wasn’t my own. The exhaustion was a heavy blanket, the weight a constant reminder of everything I felt I’d lost. I just wanted to feel strong again. I wanted to be a good example, a vibrant mother, someone my child would look up to. Someone who had it all together.
So, I started small. Evening walks with the stroller. Swapping sugary snacks for fruit. It felt good. The pounds started to melt away, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. I found an online community of other mothers dedicated to fitness, and their stories fueled me. They talked about reclaiming their bodies, about self-love through discipline. I loved the feeling of control. It was intoxicating. For the first time in ages, something felt like mine again.
The walks turned into runs. The fruit turned into meticulously weighed portions of lean protein and greens. I downloaded an app, tracking every single calorie, every gram of macro. It became my bible. If it wasn’t logged, it wasn’t eaten. If it wasn’t “clean,” it was poison. My workouts grew longer, more intense. Two-a-days became the norm. I was building myself anew, brick by disciplined brick.
A plate of waffles | Source: Midjourney
My partner started to notice. He’d bring home my favorite takeout, and I’d politely decline, making myself a sad plate of steamed vegetables. “You’re looking a little… lean, honey,” he’d say, his brow furrowed with concern. I’d just shrug, flashing a forced smile. “I’m just really committed to my health! I feel amazing.” And I did. Or at least, I felt powerful. In control. That was enough.
Family dinners became a minefield. I’d pick at my food, silently calculating, comparing my plate to everyone else’s. My partner would try to make me laugh, offer a bite of his dessert. I’d snap, “No, thank you. I don’t eat that anymore.” The joy slowly drained from our meals. I could see the hurt in his eyes, but I pushed it away. He just doesn’t understand. I’m doing this for all of us. I’m becoming the best version of myself.
My child, however, was my biggest cheerleader. Little eyes watched me intently as I did burpees in the living room. “Mommy is strong!” they’d squeal, flexing their tiny biceps. My heart would swell with pride. See? I’m doing it right. I’m teaching them healthy habits from the start. I’d explain why we ate “good foods” and why “sometimes foods” were rare treats. I talked about strong bones and healthy hearts. I thought I was instilling valuable lessons.
I started encouraging them to eat more greens, to choose water over juice. I praised them whenever they finished their broccoli, whenever they asked for an apple instead of a cookie. My partner would roll his eyes sometimes, gently reminding me that a little bit of everything was fine. But I knew better. I was a beacon of health, a warrior of wellness.
A woman standing in a kitchen and using her phone | Source: Midjourney
Then the subtle shifts began. My child started asking if their food was “healthy.” They’d look suspiciously at treats offered by grandparents. They’d ask if Mommy thought they were strong enough. Oh, how sweet, I thought. They’re internalizing it all. They want to be healthy just like me. I took it as a sign of my success. I saw their developing cautiousness around food as a reflection of my own disciplined approach, not a warning sign.
They became quieter at meal times. Sometimes they’d push food around their plate, saying their tummy hurt, or they weren’t hungry. I’d gently remind them about strong bodies and how we needed fuel. If they still refused, I’d sigh and tell myself it was just a phase. Kids are picky. They’ll eat when they’re hungry. I was so consumed by my own regimented eating, I barely registered the alarming trend in theirs.
One day, my child complained of feeling dizzy at the playground. They looked pale. I brushed it off. “You just need more water, sweetie. You probably ran too much.” But the dizziness became more frequent. Their energy levels plummeted. They stopped wanting to play as much, preferring to sit quietly. My heart felt a pang of worry, but I rationalized it away. Maybe a growth spurt? Maybe a mild cold?
Then came the morning that changed everything. My child woke up and immediately vomited. Not just a little, but violently. Their tiny body convulsed, leaving them gasping for breath, frail and whimpering. Their skin was almost translucent. Their eyes were sunken. PANIC. PURE, SHEER PANIC. My healthy, vibrant child suddenly looked like a ghost.
A woman using her cellphone | Source: Pexels
We rushed to the emergency room. The doctors ran tests. I sat there, clutching my child’s hand, my own healthy, strong body trembling uncontrollably. What’s happening? My child is so healthy! We eat all the right things! I’ve been so careful!
The doctor, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, came back after what felt like an eternity. She sat down, her gaze gentle but firm. “The blood tests are back,” she said softly. “Your child is severely anemic. Their electrolytes are dangerously low. And we’ve found signs of…” she paused, looking directly into my eyes, her voice dropping, “significant malnourishment.”
My world stopped. Malnourishment? My child? I wanted to scream, to deny it. “No! That’s impossible! I’m so careful about what they eat! I teach them all about healthy choices! We eat greens, we eat protein, no junk food!”
The doctor’s gaze never wavered. “We understand you want what’s best for your child,” she said gently. “But sometimes, good intentions can… go too far.” She pulled up some charts, pointing to alarming deficiencies. “Your child’s body is starving. And when we spoke to them about food, they expressed a deep fear of… ‘bad foods.’ They told us that Mommy taught them to be strong by eating only ‘good foods’ and that ‘sugar is poison.’ They’ve been secretly limiting their intake for weeks, afraid of displeasing you, afraid of not being ‘strong’ enough.”
A bowl of peanut butter | Source: Pexels
The air left my lungs. My perfect, disciplined, healthy habits. My relentless pursuit of wellness. It wasn’t a beacon. It was a prison. I hadn’t just put myself in a cage; I had unknowingly, irrevocably, locked my own child inside with me. My wake-up call wasn’t just a gentle nudge; it was my child’s fading pulse, a terrifying siren screaming the truth. My healthy choices had become a monstrous obsession, and it was slowly, silently, destroying the one person I loved more than life itself. I had become the very thing I swore to protect them from.
