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My mom always says things that crush my confidence.

Nerdyssey October 27, 2025

Let’s talk about this:

 As the title says — I’m overweight and not particularly pretty, and I know that. I’ve been slowly trying to lose weight and take better care of myself. But no matter what I do, I never seem to have any value in my mother’s eyes.

Sometimes when I buy clothes my size — or even a size up — my mom will comment things like, “That shirt looks too big, but it’ll fit you,” or “A T-shirt should fit you fine.” Every time she says things like that, I feel awful. Sometimes I get so frustrated and wonder why she talks to me that way — but I usually just stay quiet.

I try to ignore it, but those words keep echoing in my ears every day. I can’t help but feel hurt. I’ve stopped going out much, and I’m even scared to wear the clothes I like. I love fashion, but her comments make me feel ashamed to dress up or go anywhere. Every word she says feels like a tiny needle stabbing my heart — slowly killing me inside. ðŸ˜Ē

Here’s how I see it : 

Pull up a soft chair beside me, love. I’m going to talk to you like a big-sister friend who’s seen this kind of hurt before—the quiet kind that doesn’t leave bruises on skin, but leaves echoes in the mirror. We’ll sit here together for a while. I’ll hold the heavy parts with you. We’ll untangle what’s actually happening inside your heart when your mom makes those comments, why it hits so deep, and how you can start building a softer, stronger home inside yourself—one that even sharp words can’t puncture.

I won’t minimize anything. The way you describe her remarks—little stabs that add up—is exactly how a thousand paper cuts become a wound. The world trains us to shrug off “small” comments, but here’s the truth: small comments repeated are not small. They’re a script. And scripts become the voice in our head. What you’re feeling is valid, sane, and deeply human.

We’ll go gently, but we won’t be vague. I’ll give you tools, phrases, rituals, and a step-by-step plan. I’ll also give you stories you can try on for size—because sometimes we learn to love ourselves again by borrowing someone else’s story for a minute, until our own fits.

1) Why it hurts this much (and why you’re not “too sensitive”)

When we’re little, we don’t just hear our parents; we absorb them. A parent’s voice gets VIP access to the inner control room where a kid’s worth is calibrated. If a stranger says, “That shirt is big but it’ll fit,” it lands like a fly. Annoying, but you swat it. When a parent says it, it lands like law: This is how I am seen by the person who knows me most.

Your nervous system has learned to treat your mom’s remarks as status reports on your acceptability. That’s why you hear her sentences on loop later, even after the moment is over. Your brain is trying to protect you—“memorize the rules; maybe next time we won’t get hurt”—but it backfires. The loop becomes a soundtrack you didn’t choose.

Here’s the reframe I want you to put in your pocket: the pain is not proof she’s right; it’s proof you valued her voice. And valuing her voice is not a flaw—that impulse was built by love. It simply needs updating now that you’re grown.

Think of it like this: when you were a kid, your mom’s words had a master key. As an adult, you get to rekey the locks. She can still knock. She can still speak. But access to the control room? That becomes by invitation only.

2) Possible reasons she talks this way (without excusing the harm)

You said she may not mean to be cruel. I believe you. Many mothers were taught a very old operating system called Tough Love 1.0: “say the hard thing so the world won’t.” They watched their own mothers measure worth in sizes and scales, and they inherited the habit. But love that hasn’t updated itself becomes abrasion pretending to be honesty.

Sometimes, a parent thinks if they pre-emptively point out the “flaw,” the child won’t be blindsided later. But that logic misunderstands where strength comes from. Strength is not built by being teased into submission; it’s built by being seen into courage.

So yes, she may be trying—in her way—to prepare or protect you. But intention doesn’t neutralize impact. A feather duster swung like a sword can still cut.

Naming this helps: “My mom is using an old map because she wants me safe. But her map leads me into shame, and I’m allowed to choose a different route.” You can respect the desire under her words, and reject the delivery system.

3) The shape of the wound (emotional criticism trauma)

What you described—liking fashion but avoiding going out; buying clothes but feeling afraid to wear them; the stitches of shame around your size—is the footprint of emotional criticism trauma. It often looks like:

  • Hypervigilance around clothes and mirrors (“Will this trigger a comment?”)
  • Postponing joy (“I’ll dress up when I’m smaller.”)
  • Pre-apologizing with outfits (hiding in black, baggy as camouflage)
  • Disappearing socially (“Safer to stay home than risk being seen wrong”)

I’m not diagnosing you. I’m simply saying: there’s a pattern here, and it has a name. When a hurt has a name, it becomes a thing you have, not a thing that has you.

4) The Inner Courtroom (and how to walk out)

Imagine your mind as a courtroom. Your mom’s comments enter as Exhibits A, B, C. The inner prosecutor (trained by years of criticism) bangs the table: “See? Evidence you are too much, not enough, wrong somehow.” The defense attorney (your self-compassion) shows up late and mumbles. Verdict: shame. Sentence: hide.

We’re going to change the cast.

New roles:

  • Judge: Present-Day You (not Child-You)
  • Prosecutor: Old Script (still allowed to talk, not allowed to decide)
  • Defense: Future-You + Best Friend Voice
  • Expert Witnesses: Body Sensations (how I actually feel in this outfit), Daily Effort (what I’m doing to care for myself), Joy (does this spark life?)

New rule of court: No single comment is admissible as truth. Only patterns + self-report count.

When a remark lands, picture yourself literally standing up, tapping the gavel, and saying: “Objection: speculation. The witness (body) will testify.” Then ask your body: Do I feel comfortable? Do I like how I look? Am I breathing easier in this fabric? If the body says yes, the court dismisses the comment. If the body says no, we adjust for us, not to avoid her words.

This might sound silly. It works. Ritualized imagination gives your nervous system a script to follow under stress.

5) Boundary ladder (for every energy level)

You don’t have to go from silence to TED Talk. Boundaries can be scaled.

Rung 1: Micro-Boundaries (low energy)

  • “Hmm.” (neutral, non-engaging)
  • Half-smile + change subject
  • Walk away under the pretense of “Oh, I need to check something in my room.”

Rung 2: Naming the effect (medium energy)

  • “Comments like that make me self-conscious. Please don’t.”
  • “I’m excited about this shirt. I’m not asking for size advice.”
  • “I’m working on kinder language with myself. I need the same from you.”

Rung 3: Asking for the need (high energy)

  • “If you want to help, say something you do like about this outfit, or say nothing.”
  • “Weight/size is off-topic with me. If you forget, I’ll pause the conversation and step away.”

Rung 4: Consequence (protective energy)

  • “If comments continue, I’ll stop showing you my clothes. We can talk about other things.”
  • “I love you. I won’t stay in conversations that hurt me. I’ll try again another time.”

You don’t need to “win.” You need to keep your nervous system from being trampled. That is victory.

6) Scripts for real moments (copy-paste into your life)

When she says: “That shirt looks too big, but it’ll fit you.”
You (soft but firm): “I picked it for comfort and style, not for commentary. Let’s talk about your day instead.”

When she says: “A T-shirt should fit you fine.”
You: “The fit is exactly how I like it. If you don’t like it, that’s okay—my clothes have to make me happy.”

If she laughs it off: “I’m just joking.”
You: “I know you’re joking. Jokes can still sting. I’m asking for this topic to be gentle or skipped.”

If she presses: “I’m your mother; I’m being honest.”
You: “I appreciate honesty about things I’m asking input on. I’m not asking about my size. I’m asking for kindness.”

If you freeze and think of the words later: send a text after:

“Mom, I felt hurt by the size comments today. I’m working hard on my health and on accepting myself as I go. It would help me if we kept clothing size out of our conversations. If you have a compliment, I’d love to hear it. If not, no need to comment. Love you.”

(Yes, texting counts. Voices tremble; texts land clean.)

7) Rebuilding your inner voice (daily micro-practice)

You won’t out-argue your mother’s commentary by logic alone. You’ll out-repeat it. Frequency beats force. Try this 3-minute routine twice a day:

The Mirror Minute (morning)

  1. Stand in front of the mirror. Relax your jaw. Unclench your stomach.
  2. Put one hand on your chest, one on your belly. Breathe in for four, out for six, three times.
  3. Say out loud (yes, out loud):

    • “I am not a project; I am a person.”
    • “My body is not an apology.”
    • “Comfort is allowed on this body.”
    • “I dress for my joy, not other people’s approval.”


(If talking feels too much, write it on a sticky note. Your eyes will read it even when your mouth can’t say it yet.)

The Kind Rebuttal (any time a comment echoes)
When you hear her voice in your head, respond immediately with one of these:

  • “That’s her voice. Mine says, ‘Good choice, we like this.’”
  • “We don’t do body snark in here.”
  • “Not helpful. Try again.” (Yes, you can sass the echo.)

Neuroscience note: pairing a calm breath with a new sentence wires the sentence to safety. Over time, the brain will treat your words as the more credible ones.

8) Wardrobe sovereignty: fall in love with clothes again (in safe stages)

You love fashion. That’s not frivolous; that’s art. Style is how we speak without words. Let’s reclaim it in a way that doesn’t flood your nervous system.

Stage 1: Private runway

  • Put on music you adore. “Close” the door on the world.
  • Try three outfits you wish you could wear outside.
  • Take photos for you only. Make a private album titled “Joy Looks Good on Me.”
  • Notice sensations more than size: “I like how this fabric drapes on my hips; this color wakes my face.”

Stage 2: Sanctuary outing

  • Wear one piece (scarf, earrings, shoes) from your private runway to a place you feel anonymous—a cafÃĐ in a different neighborhood, a bookstore with kind lighting.
  • Sit and read. Bask. You are not performing. You are occupying space gently.

Stage 3: Visible but buffered

  • Wear a full joyful outfit to meet a supportive friend or to run an errand during off-hours.
  • If you catch your reflection and the old voice starts: do the Mirror Minute in your head. Breathe. Say, “I chose this on purpose.”

Stage 4: Home but protected

  • If you know you’ll see your mom and you want to wear something you love, pre-install a boundary: “I’m excited about this today; I won’t be discussing size or fit.”

Celebrate each stage. Don’t wait for “after I lose weight” to dress the life you want. Clothes that fit your today-body are love notes to your future-self.

9) The Body Neutrality Bridge (when “I’m beautiful” feels too far)

Some days, “I’m beautiful” rings false. That’s okay. Use body neutrality as the bridge:

  • “My legs are not decorations; they are transportation.”
  • “My stomach helps me digest the food that keeps me alive.”
  • “My arms carry groceries, books, and hugs.”
  • “My body is not a voting booth. No one else gets a ballot.”

Neutral statements steady the floor so positive ones can land later.

10) A 30–60–90 day plan (because healing likes structure)

Days 1–30: Stabilize your inner home

  • Mirror Minute (morning and night).
  • Pick two of the boundary ladder phrases you like; write them on your phone’s notes.
  • Do Stage 1 of Wardrobe Sovereignty once a week.
  • Make a “Kind Closet”: move 3–5 items you actually like to the front. Donate or box anything that routinely triggers shame (you are not a museum for punishing clothes).
  • Journal prompt, 5 minutes: “Things my body made possible today.”

Days 31–60: Expand softly

  • Stage 2 and Stage 3 of Wardrobe Sovereignty (one each per week).
  • One sanctuary outing alone and one with a supportive person.
  • Practice Rung 2 boundary once (text counts).
  • Add one “style joy” ritual: paint nails, wear a ring that feels like a poem, spritz a scent for you.

Days 61–90: Integrate & protect

  • If you feel steady, try Rung 3 with your mom: “Weight/size is off-topic with me.”
  • Create a “when I go out” pack: lip balm, hair tie, a tiny card with your boundary mantra (“Not up for commentary”), earbuds with a playlist named “Walking in Like I Belong.”
  • Treat yourself to one item that fits beautifully now. The price is not the goal—fit is. The rule: you must be able to breathe easily, sit comfortably, and smile when you catch your reflection.

Keep a tiny tracker (calendar ticks or phone notes). Not to police yourself—just to see yourself choosing you again and again.

11) The Self-Worth Portfolio (so your value isn’t hostage to mirrors)

Invest in multiple “value streams.” Add deposits weekly.

  • Competence deposits: learn a skill unrelated to appearance (coffee brewing, hand lettering, Excel shortcuts, bike maintenance).
  • Kindness deposits: do one small helpful thing you don’t announce (stack chairs after a meeting, refill the water jug).
  • Pleasure deposits: read three pages of a novel, make a playlist for a mood, buy fruit that tastes like sunshine.
  • Strength deposits: walk 10–20 minutes, stretch your back, breathe deep. Not “to shrink”—to inhabit.
  • Connection deposits: text a friend a genuine compliment or memory you cherish.

Every deposit whispers, “I exist for more than opinions about my body.”

12) Managing the “aftershock” (when a comment replays for hours)

When the echo starts, use 3R First Aid:

  1. Recognize: “This is an aftershock, not a new earthquake.”
  2. Regulate: two cycles of 4-in/6-out breathing + rub your forearms briskly (self-soothing that signals safety).
  3. Replace: say one of your rebuttals out loud, then do a 2-minute sensory task (make tea, step outside and find three colors, wash your face slowly).

If you’re with someone safe, say, “I got poked by a comment. Can you remind me one true thing about me?” Let them hand you a reality thread.

13) Compassion for her (with boundaries for you)

You can hold two truths without breaking: “My mom likely thinks she’s helping” and “Her words hurt me.” Compassion without boundaries turns you into a sponge. Boundaries without compassion can harden you. You deserve the middle: soft heart, strong edge.

A quiet practice that helps: when she criticizes your size, imagine pressing translate in your mind. Her words become: “I am scared the world will be cruel, and I don’t know how to love out loud without sounding cruel myself.” Then you respond to that, not the stab: “We both want me safe. The safest thing for me is your kindness.”

You offer her a bridge into better love. If she won’t cross it, you still built your side.

14) Reclaiming “going out” (in three circles)

Think of your social world as concentric circles.

  • Inner circle (safe): places where you are anonymous or affirmed (that cafÃĐ with gentle light, the park at 8 a.m., the bookstore where the clerk smiles with their eyes). Practice being seen here first.
  • Middle circle (neutral): errands, appointments, neighbors—people are busy; your outfit is not a headline. Bring a friend or your playlist.
  • Outer circle (loaded): family gatherings, events with appearance commentary. If you choose to go, bring boundaries and buffer time after. You are allowed to leave early. You are allowed to wear headphones to wash dishes and hum, to create a cocoon.

You do not owe any environment your raw, unprotected self. You are allowed scaffolding.

15) If you’re also on a health journey (keeping it kind)

You said you’re slowly trying to lose weight and care for yourself. I’m proud of that effort. Read this twice: your body deserves comfort and beauty at every size you pass through. Do not punish your current self to reward a hypothetical future self. That’s how people abandon their lives waiting for permission to live.

Practical kindness:

  • Buy the jeans that fit now; donate the ones that cut your breath.
  • Choose movement that feels like freedom, not penance (walk with music, dance in the kitchen, swim because water hugs).
  • Cook for flavor and energy, not for math alone.
  • Celebrate non-scale wins: stamina, mood, fewer afternoon crashes, better sleep, looser shoulders.

Your worth is not “under construction.” You own it outright.

16) A conversation you might have one day (when you’re ready)

If a deeper talk with your mom becomes possible, here’s a script that honors both of you:

You: “Mom, I want to tell you something that’s tender for me. When you make comments about my size or how clothes fit—like ‘that shirt looks big but it’ll fit’—I know you don’t mean to hurt me, but I feel small and ashamed. I really am taking care of myself in ways that feel healthy and sustainable. What helps me most is when you cheer me on or say nothing about my body at all.

If you want to help, you could ask, ‘Do you want feedback or hype?’ and if I say ‘hype,’ please just tell me one thing you like about my outfit—or we can talk about anything else.

I love you. I want our conversations to be safe for me. So I’m asking that we keep size/weight off-limits unless I bring it up. If it slips out, I’ll remind you, and I hope we can reset without a fight.”

If she argues, pause: “I’m not debating whether you’re right. I’m telling you how I feel and what I need.” Then step away kindly if needed. Consistency teaches people where the doors are.

17) When loved ones question your boundaries (“you’re too sensitive”)

Try these responses:

  • “My sensitivity is how I feel. My boundary is how I heal.”
  • “Sensitive people are allowed to make their homes gentler.”
  • “I’m not asking you to agree; I’m asking you to respect.”
  • “If we can’t avoid body talk, I’ll take space. We can reconnect on topics we both enjoy.”

You don’t have to win philosophy debates to protect your heart.

18) Community matters (borrow sturdy mirrors)

Find at least one person—friend, cousin, online community—who speaks to you like I’m speaking now. People who love fashion at every size. People who talk about food as nourishment and pleasure, not punishment. People who say “You look like music today.” Borrow their eyes. When your reflection wobbles, ask them: “How do you see me?” Let their answer be a temporary scaffolding while you rebuild your own.

If you don’t have that person yet, start as your own. Write yourself a monthly letter titled “Things I Noticed About You That Are Lovely.” Include non-appearance things: your compassion with a tired cashier; the way you make a chair look like a throne with just a blanket; how you turn leftovers into comfort.

You’re building a folder called evidence for my worth. Keep it near. Open it often.

19) A little myth I want you to bury

“My value will bloom when I become thinner or prettier.”
No. Your value is the soil—always present, feeding every leaf. Changing your body or style can change experience, not existence. You matter now, in a size-up shirt, in a T-shirt, in pajamas, in laughter, in tears. You bring mood, humor, empathy, creativity, observation, presence. None of that is size-dependent. None.

20) A story for your pocket (borrow this when the mirror is mean)

There was a girl who loved clothes the way some people love languages. Every morning she visited her wardrobe like it was a garden. But whenever she reached for a bright flower, a wind would blow from another room, whispering, “Be less.”

At first she obeyed the wind. She wore gray and smallness. But one afternoon she noticed a cat on the windowsill—fat, glossy, unconcerned—sitting in the absolute center of a sun patch. The cat did not audition for the light. The light came anyway. The girl laughed. She put on the yellow skirt and went to buy oranges. The sky did not collapse. A child pointed at her skirt and said, “Sunshine!” The girl realized the wind had been wrong about the weather all along.

She still hears the wind sometimes. But she has learned to close the window and turn on music. The cat approves.

21) What to do on a wobbly day (a 10-minute rescue)

  • Minute 1–2: Sit. Hand on heart. 4-in/6-out breathing.
  • Minute 3–4: Write three sentences: “I feel ___. The trigger was ___. I need ___.”
  • Minute 5–6: Put on one comfort item (soft cardigan, favorite earrings, fuzzy socks).
  • Minute 7–8: Make a warm drink slowly and watch the steam.
  • Minute 9–10: Send a message to a safe person: “Not asking for advice. Just need to be reminded I’m more than a body.” Let them reflect you back.

If no one replies, read your folder of evidence for my worth. Your own words can be home.

22) How to hold worth while you keep growing

You are allowed to both care for your health and reject shame. You are allowed to enjoy clothes while also changing sizes. You are allowed to want approval and refuse to chase it at the cost of your peace. You are allowed to love your mom and limit her access to your softest places. You are allowed to change your mind about what you wear at 3 p.m. and at 30 years old. You are allowed to be art on a Tuesday.

There is no moral attached to a shirt size. There is only fit. There is only comfort. There is only “How does this let me move through my day with more ease and delight?”

23) A closing letter from future-you

Hey you,
I’m writing from a morning you haven’t met yet. I’m wearing a shirt that fits my today-body and it moves like kindness. I poured coffee and didn’t count anything but the seconds of steam. When I caught my reflection, I didn’t wince or pose; I nodded, like you nod at an old friend in a crowd. I saw all the days you didn’t go out and all the days you tried anyway. I saw the text you sent Mom even though your hands shook. I saw you love yourself on paper until your throat learned the words.

The world didn’t get quieter. But inside, we did. I keep your boundary phrases in my pocket like smooth stones. I can roll them between my fingers when the wind picks up. Some people still comment; those words bounce now, because I am not hollow anymore. I’m full of my own voice.

Today I’m wearing the yellow skirt. Two sizes up from some label I used to worship, and two sizes down from the shame I used to carry. It swishes. A child looked at me and said “sunshine.” I didn’t argue.

Thank you for every small brave thing you did—the Mirror Minute, the sanctuary cafÃĐ, the kind closet. Thank you for choosing comfort before compliments and presence before performance. You were not dramatic. You were healing. And it worked.

See you soon. I’ll save you a seat by the window.
—Me

If you remember nothing else, remember this:

  • Your mother’s voice can be part of your story without being the narrator.
  • You don’t need permission to dress the body you live in today.
  • Boundaries are not rejection; they are architecture.
  • Healing is not loud. It’s the quiet click of a lock you rekeyed yourself.
  • You are not a before picture. You are a whole picture.

I’m proud of you for writing this down and letting someone witness it. That alone is a crack in the old wall where light can get in. Tonight, lay out an outfit that feels like a truce with your body. Put your phone on the dresser. Breathe. Say one kind sentence out loud, even if your voice shakes. Then wear your small brave choice into the day.

If the wind picks up, you know where the window latch is. And somewhere, a cat is still sitting in the center of its sun patch, not negotiating with light. Let that be your permission slip.

You are allowed to take up space—on sidewalks, in photos, inside clothes, in conversations, in your own life. No comment can shrink a soul that’s decided to stay.

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All entries on DramoCiety are for reflective and educational purposes only. They are not personal or therapeutic advice.

Nerdyssey

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