I hated my body as a kid. Watching my daughter love hers has been a healing journey

“Mommy, do I have to get a Happy Meal?”

I was so stunned by my 9-year-old daughter Mila’s request, I almost hit the car placing their order in front of us. I’d been wanting Mila to give up McDonald’s for years, beating myself up for allowing it as more than an occasional treat, forgoing nutrition for convenience.

“It’s not enough food. Can I please get 10-piece nuggets with fries?” she asked sweetly.

“But what about the toy? I think it’s a good one this month!” I said, surprising myself for encouraging clutter.

“Ugh, it’s OK, they’re kinda babyish,” she said, snapping her gum. And from my quick glance at the rearview mirror, I believe there was an eye roll, too.

I felt the tears start to well as I placed her order, sans Happy Meal. Of course, those tears had nothing to do with chicken nuggets. I simply wasn’t ready for my daughter to be the one initiating this transition, this rite of passage, this step toward, sigh, puberty.

Sitting in my backseat — without a booster or car seat — was my one and only child, no longer a baby but a full-fledged tween with hormones on the brink of raging. We’d taken some other baby steps away from childhood, like opting for trips to Claire’s and Sephora rather than the toy store, drop-off birthday parties and playdates, showering without help and even asking for a bra.

I did not ask my mom for a bra. When I was barely 12, she sternly told me that getting a bra had become “necessary” (thank you, uncooperative metabolism). As puberty took over, it pushed the scale up and my boobs out. I was sullen, moody and self-conscious in the dressing room of the department store as the salesperson wrapped a measuring tape around my chest and brought me a barrage of age-appropriate styles to try on.

It was not “necessary” that Mila wear a bra, but she spotted one in her size while we were out shopping. There wasn’t much for the soft, cotton pullover training bra to hold, but she swore it would make her feel more comfortable. Rather than derail her curiosity, the bra came home with us and the next morning, it was under her T-shirt without another word about it.

When I wore my first bra out in public, I was self-conscious,  positive that everyone was staring at the faint outline of straps showing through my shirt. For weeks, I walked around with my arms crossed over my chest. But my daughter’s silence wasn’t a sign of embarrassment. It was quite the opposite — she was so comfortable and confident in her changing body. There was nothing to discuss; she needed no reassurance. Mila was proud to wear a bra and excited to enter all the rites of passage that came along with puberty, which is so different from how I felt about my body when I was her age.

I’m in awe that my daughter is proud of her body and celebrates it with such ease. Watching her navigate the start of puberty so gracefully has come with a surprising perk: It’s helping me as I head into perimenopause. My natural inclination is to panic that 30-plus years later, once again my face is breaking out, my moods are swinging, my boobs are changing and my hormones are out of whack. Instead, my daughter has been my unexpected reminder that change is good — even healing — and I should embrace this wave of physical and emotional changes.

Also unlike me at her age, she doesn’t see food as taboo, which at times makes it  counterintuitive for me to follow her lead, knowing how uncomfortable, embarrassed and confused I was in my skin as a girl. I have to remind myself that Mila’s relationship with food is healthy. She eats nuggets and whatever else sounds good without guilt or shame.

At 9 years old, I was already on a diet and fearful of ingesting anything that wasn’t labeled “light” or “diet.” My stubborn baby fat wouldn’t budge, and with the onset of puberty, it felt like even a craving would make me gain weight. My childhood pantry was stocked with ’80s staples like Crystal Light, bland microwave popcorn and rice cakes, which just made me crave decadent foods even more. As I hit the teen years, babysitting jobs doubled as opportunities to raid pantries overflowing with cookies, chips and non-diet soda.

When I found out I was having a daughter, I was elated, but before she was even born, apprehension over what the puberty years would bring set in. I struggled with my weight, body image, social anxiety and imposter syndrome from the time puberty began until, well, now — as a grown woman barreling toward menopause. I see so much of myself in my daughter. She loves music, pop culture, reading and writing. She’s quirky, fiercely loyal to her friends, sensitive, inquisitive and creative. But we are polar opposites when it comes to body acceptance. I got my first period at 12 years old and cried for days, feeling like a human science experiment. No one could know. I lied to my friends for months, carefully hiding pads in the bottom of my locker. After my daughter discovered menstruation, she was curious and — dare I say — looking forward to it. Once we were standing in a long line at Target and Mila decided that was the perfect time to ask — at the top of her lungs — “Mommy? How old were you when you got your first period?”

I mumbled that I got my first period in the seventh grade, then whispered that we could talk more about it when we got home. “Why not now?” she implored.

How could I explain that at 9 years old, she was light-years more comfortable talking about and anticipating these changes than I was at 12 (and let’s be honest, at 46)? When Mila came home from school and shared that some boys told her they reminded her of a “fat” TV character, I was triggered. In the sixth grade, my friends and I were pretending to be our favorite celebrities and I desperately wanted to be “Alyssa Milano.” Alas, I was told to be “Roseanne Barr” as it was more “believable.” I didn’t go to school for three days and pushed down the hurt with handfuls of snacks and dessert. My daughter just shrugged it off. “It hurts my feelings, but I know I’m not fat,” she said.

Funny how I worried about getting my daughter through puberty and teaching her to feel comfortable around food, to love her body and find inner peace — yet she’s the one with advice, comfort and perspective. Her acceptance of her own body is helping me cope with the perimenopausal changes to mine.

That’s not to say my work as a parent of a prepubescent tween is done. I’ve helped Mila navigate friendship drama, disappointments and a penchant for sass talk, usually directed at me. And for all her maturity around puberty and her changing body, she’s still straddling that fine line between childhood and tweenhood. It’s her instinct to push me away but then beg me to stay. She still can’t go to sleep without my husband or me reading her a story and singing the medley of songs curated for her as a baby. She wants to watch “Bluey” but is a massive fan of “Friends” reruns. She’s a Swiftie but Barbie still rules. And when I slip and order her a Happy Meal, she eats it without complaint because she knows it’s what my own raging hormones need to see.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com