I wish my parents hadn't made me feel that how I looked was

The words of Arabella Weir echo like the laments of the ancients, heavy with the weight of love entwined with the fragile thread of appearance. She speaks of the sorrow that arises when a child learns, too early, that their worth is measured not in the purity of their soul, nor the strength of their spirit, but in the fleeting form of their body. To be taught that love bends and sways with the scale’s numbers is to carry a burden that no child should bear. For in such a lesson, affection becomes conditional, and the bond between parent and child trembles beneath the shadow of judgment.

Yet she does not condemn without understanding. Her words hold both grievance and compassion, for she beholds the plight of the parent as well. To watch one’s offspring wander into the realm of excess, to see their form altered by weight and worry whether they may lose health and harmony—this is no light burden for a parent’s heart. The parent, too, wrestles with fear: that their child may suffer, may stumble, may be scorned by a world cruel in its gaze. Thus, the hand that tightens with criticism is not always born of malice, but of misguided protection.

The ancients remind us that love, when bound to the surface, loses its eternal flame. Recall the tale of Demosthenes, the Athenian orator mocked for his stammer. His mother could have hidden him away in shame, yet he chose to fight through his weakness, placing pebbles in his mouth to train his voice against the crashing waves. Had his worth been tied to his flaw, his greatness would have withered. But he proved that the body, the voice, even the outward form, may stumble, while the spirit rises triumphant. The lesson resounds: nurture the soul, and the body will follow in its time.

Consider, too, the tender story of parents who, with good intent, forbid their children sweet indulgences in the hope of shaping healthier futures. Many of those children grow not with gratitude, but with hunger for what was denied. The body may be managed for a season by rules, but the heart rebels if it feels unloved. Only when trust replaces fear can a child find their own balance, their own return to health—not driven by shame, but by self-love and wisdom.

Arabella’s lament is, therefore, a call to both generations: to the parent, restraint; to the child, patience. For the path of growth is long, and each traveler must walk it in their own time. The flame of true parental love must not flicker before the winds of physical change. It must burn steadily, a beacon that assures the child: “You are cherished, in every form you take.” For when that certainty is secure, the child is free to mend, to heal, and to flourish.

We must also remember the wisdom of the Stoics, who taught that the body is a vessel, ever shifting and never permanent. Marcus Aurelius wrote: “The body is but a river, ever flowing, never still.” To anchor love upon such a river is to tie it to sand. Better to anchor it in the eternal rock of virtue, kindness, and courage. In these qualities, no gain or loss of flesh may diminish worth.

The lesson, then, is clear. Let parents guard their words, so they do not weave the chains of conditional love. Let them offer guidance with gentleness, and trust that the seeds of wisdom, once planted, will bloom in their child in due season. And let children remember that their essence is not bound to the flesh, but to the fire within.

Practical actions arise from this truth: speak affirmations of love not tied to appearance; praise effort, not size; share meals as rituals of joy, not judgment; walk together, move together, laugh together, so that health becomes a shared path rather than a burden of shame. In this way, both parent and child may walk the middle road, where love is steady, health is honored, and the spirit is never weighed down by the scales of the world.