Her Mother's Daughter
My mother is fabulous.
She is conventionally beautiful:
Blonde hair, blue eyes, hourglass figure.
I was practically raised by Marilyn Monroe herself. Underneath her stunning veneer, she is also incredibly kind, generous, loyal, hard-working and intelligent.
She lights up a room.
I idolized her. I was a chubby, carefree kid with big stilettos to fill.
I remember the first time I knew my mother was ridiculously spectacular. I was in the third grade.
My teacher had asked me to go into the staff room to turn off the stove-top where she had hot apple cider warming up (as a teacher currently, there are so many things wrong with this, but... I digress). I walked down the hall to the staff room and saw the pot on the stove, but the stove was unlike mine at home and I wasn’t sure how to turn it off. I didn’t want to let down my teacher, so I paced around a bit on the linoleum floor wondering what to do. Then I heard a familiar sound coming down the hallway. Click, clack, click, clack. I knew instinctively it was my mother in her customary high heeled boots. I popped my head out of the staff room and there she was, in all her glory, strutting down the hall of St. Joseph’s Catholic in her high heeled boots, full out 80s hair and makeup and a mink boa.
When I recall this moment, I see her in slow motion, kind of like a cliche 80s rock video. I had no idea why my mother was coming to the school that day, so the fact that she was there was a miracle for me. She came into the staff room and helped me with the cider.
Although I was so thankful my mother saved me that day, I do recall her unusual presence in the school. Not only because it was shocking to see her there on like, a random Tuesday, but she just looked so out of place in the humble, dusty hallways that smelled like socks and peanut butter, walking the same halls as the frazzled, overworked teachers, and the plain stay-at-home moms who regularly volunteered. She was not like the other moms. She was unconventional. And I wanted to be just like her.
But, here’s the thing. I’m just not. And oh, how I’ve tried.
Before I continue, I want to reiterate that my mother, aside from being impossibly gorgeous, is incredibly talented, creative, warm, funny and thoughtful. She would give you the shirt off her back! I love her and we have a wonderful relationship. But for many years, I compared myself to her and felt inadequate.
My earliest recollection of feeling different and ashamed of my appearance was in grade 4. I chose a book from my favorite author at the time, Judy Blume, called Blubber. The book is about a girl who, along with her friends, ostracize a classmate for being overweight. Back in the 80s, the cover art was of a girl, slightly heavy set, standing in front of her class making a presentation about whales. That girl looked like me. I was Blubber. I found myself crying alone in my bedroom when my brother found me. He consoled me and told me I looked nothing like Blubber, but I knew he was just trying to make me feel better. I knew I looked like Blubber. Other classmates did too. This was a popular running joke: “Hey, did you know Tina has a waterbed at home? Yup, that’s right, because whales like water!”
In grade five, at the age of 11, I recall waiting in the car for my mom to take me somewhere. She came out of the house in a cute miniskirt. I noticed that she had a space in between her thighs that I didn’t have. My thighs touched from my knee all the way up. I started to hate my body even more.
That same year, when I signed up for house league soccer, the shorts provided by the league did not fit me. My mom had to make me new ones. Once again, I felt like Blubber. I was mortified.
At around this time, my mother who was in her mid-thirties, rekindled her modeling career from her teen years. I was in awe of this glamorous life she was living. Trips to the city for photoshoots, coming home in full, professional hair and makeup. She looked even more like a moviestar. I desperately wanted to be like her, but I thought that would be impossible, because I was Blubber.
And although I have never doubted my mother’s love for me for one minute, at the time I felt she knew I was Blubber too. I remember sitting in a restaurant with her one afternoon and she brought up the concept of dieting. She told me it was time for me to start watching what I was eating. Tears fell into my milkshake when she kindly told me that I should try eating a bit less.
I know my mother was only looking out for my best interest: my health and the fact that I was being teased about my weight, but that moment is a defining one for me and my relationship with food.
The next day we started on a plan to track my weight and my food intake. I remember I was 11 years old and I was 143 pounds. My mother put the number on the calendar; she did this in a discreet way, but the numbers still glared at me. After a few months of making better choices, I did lose a bit of weight and I really did start to feel better about myself. I got new clothes and boys started to notice me. A year later I relished in the feeling of being “popular” and I let go of the idea of Blubber.
As my body hit puberty, it went through a few ups and downs with regards to my weight. One thing that really saved me in those early years was sports. In grade 7, thanks to a wonderful teacher and coach, I believed I was meant to be an athlete. I tried out for the basketball team, and with barely ever touching a basketball in my life, I made the team after the first tryout. The coach told me I was a natural athlete. No one had ever said that to me before. My brother was the star athlete, not me. I also made the volleyball team and the track team that year. I had found my niche. That summer, I spent hours shooting hoops on my basketball net at the end of the driveway and I played volleyball against the side brick wall of my house. I mastered the overhand serve and once the season started in grade 8, I was untouchable. No one could return my serve. Teams would literally just let the ball drop on the court instead of attempting to return it. I was feeling pretty proud. That year I went on to win Athlete of the Year from my grade eight graduation and I looked forward to playing at the high school level.
By this time, I had almost forgotten about wanting to be skinny. I was so proud of my status as an athlete. However, starting high school would remind me once again of Blubber.
By grade 9 I had reached my full adult height of 5’9”. My mother told me to be proud of my height, that it was a desirable trait. I was one of the tallest of my friend group (girls and boys included) and I had an “athletic build” which I was trying to be ok with. I knew my muscular legs, broad shoulders and height advanced me on the court, but all I really wanted to be was short and cute. All of the popular girls were short and cute. At the very least I wanted to be like my mother: curvy and voluptuous, but I saw myself as more wide and sturdy.
By grade 10, I was continuing to find success with sports. I played on the volleyball, basketball and soccer teams. I won MVP for our volleyball team. I attended volleyball camps and looked into trying out for club teams in order to earn a scholarship. My dream was to play volleyball at UCLA. But, my desire to be skinny got in the way of my natural talents.
At the age of 15, I decided I wanted to give modelling a try. By this time, my mother was quite a successful model in Toronto. She could be seen in various campaigns around the city and the country. She brought me to her agency and they agreed to sign me on as a “junior plus figure model”. This sounded great, except for the fact that at this time, the mid 90s, there really was no market for this. The plus figure market was in its infancy, and catered to women aged 50+. But, because my mother had such a good reputation and a successful career, they took me on too.
I had my first booking for a big box store flyer. It was a double shot with my mother. She took me out of school for the afternoon, and while driving she tutored me on what to do, what to say, and what I should have in my model bag. When we arrived, the stylist showed us what we would be wearing. My outfit was a floral print blouse and solid color pants. Since I was on the small end of the plus figure scale (plus figure models typically range from a size 10 - 24), I had to stuff my bra and leave my blouse untucked in order to look bigger. I was mortified. This was not what I imagined modeling would be like.
Tears came to my eyes. When the stylist left to allow us to change, my mother sternly said to me, “Don’t you cry. You were hired to do a job and you must do it to the best of your ability.” I pulled myself together, walked out on set with her and finished the shoot.
On the drive home, my mother told me there was no pressure to move forward with modeling. I argued that I wanted to be a regular model, not a plus figure one. She agreed and like a flick of a switch, I became so focused on that goal. I knew I needed to lose weight. I can recall in grade 9 and 10, I’d eat breakfast, usually a bowl of cereal probably two times the recommended serving size, get ready for school, then as I was leaving, I’d grab a few cookies for the walk. The cookies were the first thing I cut out. Then, I cut out my mid-morning snack which was often a granola bar. My stomach growled so loudly by around 11 am, the students sitting beside me could hear it. For some reason, I kind of felt proud of that growl; like my hunger was a burden I was strong enough to bear. Then I started carrying a reusable water bottle with me everywhere I went, watering down my hunger. I started to learn about carbs, fats, proteins and calories. At the time, the low fat diet was the fad. I had read in a teen magazine that if I wanted to lose weight, I should consume no more than 20 grams of fat. I set my limit at 10. Soon I was tracking everything: calories, fat grams and exercise minutes. I was consuming less than 10 grams of fat per day and fewer than 1000 calories. I was starving, but I was getting positive feedback from everyone: the agency, my friends and most importantly, my mom. Each compliment I received fueled me in a way food could not. Being skinny tasted better than food.
Soon, my thighs had a gap that my mother’s did way back when I noticed it for the first time in grade 5. I could see my hip bones and my ribs. I noted these as signs of success. I had new photos taken for my portfolio and I started to get booked. However, at each booking, I compared myself to other models and noticed that I still was not as thin as they were. I had to continue to cut back and spend more time in the gym.
By this time, my volleyball coach was pretty frustrated with me. I was missing a lot of school for modeling and therefore, I missed practices and games too. I was benched. I made a joke out of it because, hey, I had better things going on. I was a model. I was thin. And playing volleyball for UCLA was just a pipe dream anyway. I had new plans: New York, Paris, Milan.
The summer between my grade 12 and 13th year (back then in Ontario, students attended one more year after grade 12 to earn credits towards university) I was invited to model in Germany. It wasn’t quite Paris, but it was a good start. Before I went, I had made a poster for my room with all of my model inspirations. At the time, the popular model look was “the waif”: Kate Moss and Shalom Harlow were two big names. Their look was extremely thin. Even at my lowest weight, I still didn’t look like them and set a goal to get down to 125 lbs before I left. I rarely socialized because that meant food would be present. I didn't date, because I couldn't go out to eat. All I would do was go to school, workout and track my progress.
While in Germany, my eating habits and obsessive exercise regimen became even more extreme. I was there for 8 weeks, living and mingling with other models. During that time I only booked three jobs (although they say that’s actually pretty good), so in my down time I’d be running, biking or swimming to drop more weight. I recall my daily diet being grapefruit for breakfast, lunch and dinner was salad with iceberg lettuce, canned corn, kidney beans and a fat-free vinaigrette dressing, and gummy bears for dessert. While there, I did not have access to a scale so I didn’t know my weight, but I could tell I was losing because of how my clothes fit.
When I returned home, one of the first things I did was jump on the scale. I had dropped to an all time low of 118 lbs. I had surpassed my goal. I felt like a bonafide model, despite my dismal performance in Germany. I may not have been short and cute, but I was tall and thin. I was even thinner than my mother, and for some reason, this equalled success. My measurements - not my work ethic, my intelligence, my love nor kindness, all the ways I measure success now as an adult - made me a success.
That night, my mother had prepared a healthy meal for my first day back in Canada: salmon, salad and crusty bread. I devoured it. After all, I had crushed my goal weight, certainly I could celebrate with my first real meal in months.
With that meal, something triggered in me. Like that switch which flicked years prior when I decided to work to be a “regular” model, my body had just enough abuse. My body was hangry.
So I ate. I ate, and I ate, and I ate. I had gained back all of the weight that I had lost over an 18 month span in about 4 months. And then I gained more. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I tried to purge the food I ate, but I just couldn’t do it, which made me feel even worse; not only was I fat, but I was a failed bulimic. I tried diet pills, dismissing the large health warning on the side of the package. I didn’t care about long term effects, I needed results, now.
I tried to hide the weight gain from my agency by wearing baggier clothes and basically just avoiding them altogether. The things that motivated me before: working out, tracking food, success in modelling, no longer did it for me.
I was working less and less, I skipped school regularly and didn’t even try out for the teams I once enjoyed and excelled in. The friends who just one year earlier threw me a surprise going away party before I left for Germany stopped asking me to hang out. I accused them of only liking me before because I was thin and popular, but the truth was, I simply wasn’t fun to be around. It wasn’t them, it was me. However, I wouldn’t realize this for many years later.
A few months passed and I was surprised to learn I was booked for a modeling job. I arrived on the set and the photographer mistook me for the make-up artist. I laughed it off, but I knew I was a fraud; I didn’t look like the pictures in my portfolio anymore. The real make up artist arrived and she got started on me. During that time, the photographer and the client popped in and out of the make up room. I saw them pointing at a poster that featured all of the models from my agency and they pointed at my picture, then they left. A few minutes later, they came back in saying there was a mix up and the clothes for the shoot didn’t arrive, so they couldn’t continue. They let me go. When I got home, my mother was very upset. The agency had called her and told her what really occurred. There was no fashion mix up, they sent me home because of my weight. They sent me home because I wouldn’t fit into the clothes. Which to me meant they sent me home because I was worthless and fat. I hit rock bottom. I was Blubber all over again. Not only did I disappoint myself and my agency, but I was a disappointment to my mother which pained me the most. She was the woman I wanted to please more than anyone; the woman I wanted to be just like.
By this time, I was finishing high school and getting ready to head off to University. I was looking forward to a fresh start where I could meet new people who didn’t know that just one short year ago I was modelling in Europe. New people who could like me for me and not for my size. Little did I know back then, my high school friends DID like me for me and not for my size, but it would take me years to believe that. I also thought I could rekindle my passion for volleyball and try out for the varsity team. However, my self esteem was so shot, that these fantasies would go unfulfilled. I went to one volleyball tryout, discovered I was completely out of shape and totally out of my league, so I quit. I started experimenting with alcohol to numb the pain. Alcohol gave me a mask of security. I was overcompensating for my dismal self esteem by being loud and obnoxious. I made a few friends, but mostly, I felt like an outsider. I was lost.
Half way through my first year at school, I was broke. I needed a part time job. My mother suggested I get back into modeling, but as a plus figure model. At the time, that sounded like just another blow to my ego. I did not want to go back to the agency, photographers, clients, stylists who once booked me as the next Linda Evangelista, to this fat, greasy mess.
Like a dog with its tail between its legs, I went back to my agency. By then, the plus figure market was really booming. They were happy to have me back and put me to work quickly. The truth is, I actually had more financial success as a plus figure model than I ever did as a regular model. I was busy. I was booked for small local campaigns and even some national ones. I travelled to New York, Montreal, Mexico, Paris and Istanbul for work. The problem was, I hated myself. I hated my body. In my mind, the modeling world saw me as my mother’s daughter and SHE was the beautiful one. She had thinner legs than me, she had thinner arms and a tinier waist. But, I was the younger one. I was supposed to be the thin one. I was supposed to be the better looking one. I felt so inadequate. I let these silly comparisons determine my worth, and I felt worthless.
I’ll admit there was a time in all of this where I didn’t want to go on. The pain of inadequacy that I felt everyday was too much of a burden to bear. I knew deep down that she loved me no matter what size I was. I knew if I ever harmed myself, I would pass that burden to my mother and that was something I could never do. Knowing that by hurting myself, I would inflict pain on her was what kept me alive. I could never hurt her; I loved her too much. She couldn’t know my pain, no one could, so I put on a happy face and pretended like everything was ok. I carried on living a ho-hum life, and I was in my 20s for crying out loud! I should have been soaking it all in, living it up, staying out late with a “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” mentality. Thinking this put even more pressure on me. I knew I should be enjoying my 20s, but I just couldn't. I didn’t know it then, but I was depressed.
One night, I did decide to go out. I had made too many excuses to my friends and I finally needed to follow through. We went to a popular sports bar in Toronto. The Maple Leafs were in the playoffs and the place was packed. We found a table on the patio that happened to be next to a long table filled with good looking, well dressed young men who were out for a good time. Our parties started mingling. One man in particular who was tall, handsome, broad shouldered and wearing a suit strolled up to us. I instantly thought he was interested in my friend because she was short and cute. But he sat next to ME. He started talking to ME. He showed interest in ME. We made an instant connection.
Now, I know what you may be thinking: but you said you were a model, of course guys would hit on you. Trust me when I tell you, this didn’t happen to me often. Or, if it did, I simply didn’t notice because I didn’t believe it to be true. However, I now know, it had nothing to do with my weight or my measurements, because truth be told, I didn’t have many boyfriends or love interests when I was thin either; it had everything to do with my vibe. I was constantly preoccupied with my looks. I was miserable and insecure and therefore, unapproachable. But of course, at the time, I didn’t understand this. I took the lack of interest as one more piece of evidence that I was unworthy of love.
My husband (yes, the guy from the bar) is a fixer. He can fix anything. I think that night in the bar, he saw something that needed to be fixed. He saw beauty under scars. He saw a beauty that I hadn’t seen or felt in myself for a very long time. He has stuck with me and my emotional baggage for 20 years and counting. Through the years with his encouragement, I have seen counsellors, therapists and healers to help me deal with my feelings of self worth. He encouraged me to tap into my natural talents like sports. As an adult I’ve joined recreation volleyball and soccer leagues, trail running groups, tried ice hockey and I regularly participate in spin classes and yoga. He encouraged me to become a yoga teacher, and that experience has really helped me finally kick my self deprecation to the curb. I started to finally heal.
I dreamed of being a yoga teacher once I retired. A friend who was currently taking her yoga teacher training convinced me to do it now, why wait? My experience completing a 200 hour yoga teacher training with Happy Jack Yoga in Gravenhurst, Ontario was life changing. Not only did I explore the internal and external strength and beauty of the poses, but I finally found my own inner beauty through meditation. It was freeing and I found a sense of self worth that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I learned to breathe, let go, surrender, serve others, consume less. I learned to ask myself what mark I want to leave on this world. When I’m gone, will anyone have noticed that my thighs rub together? Would anyone care?
I wanted to bring what I had learned about self love to my students. I currently teach at a high school in Ontario and although many teens have a tough and flawless exterior, many of them are suffering inside. I can relate to this. I developed a new course called Health and Vitality and offer it to girls in grade 10 and 11. We practice yoga and meditation, discuss wellness initiatives, help our community through volunteer work and practice self love. A lot of self love. I hope to help young girls avoid the turmoil I felt when I was young, truly believe in themselves, and in doing so, radiate their true beauty to the world. This took me 40 years to achieve. It took me 40 years to love my athletic legs that help me run and jump and kick, my broad shoulders that held up my beautiful children. But more than that, I have found my inner beauty. I am proud to say that I am loving and kind. I am hard working and stubborn. I am passionate and emotional, yet cool and calm. I also think I am pretty hilarious. I hope by teaching my course, and sharing my story, I can influence young women to discover their inner and outer beauty sooner.
One might think being a model and being paid to have your image represent a brand would make you feel good about yourself. I was so busy scrutinizing myself, I never really felt good about seeing myself in print. But I don’t blame the modeling world. I love the fact that the industry is evolving to include all shapes and sizes, ethnicities and gender. For me, I thought a modelling career would make me happy, but I didn’t know that the most successful people in life aren’t happy as a result of their success; they are happy first, and therefore, open to success. True happiness is a main ingredient needed to achieve goals, whatever they may be.
Upon reflection, I realize I took the long and unconventional path to find inner peace and happiness. Do I have regrets? Honestly, sometimes I do. I regret not having more fun in my teens and early 20s. I regret dropping out of sports. I think had I taken a different path, trusted my true gifts instead of forcing others, I could have fulfilled that UCLA volleyball team goal. But, I am here now, peaceful and happy in my skin. It took all of these unconventional twists and turns to get me here, but I finally made it. And I love where I am. I love my husband and my two children. I love my mother and my father, my brother and his family. I love my house and my community. I love my vocation and my connection with teens and women. I love my life, and I can finally say I am comfortable in my skin.
Our guest contributor, Tina Osburn is a high school teacher in Orillia, Ontario
where she teaches a wellness course she developed called Health and Vitality. In this course, Tina shares her stories of struggling with mental health and her knowledge of fitness and more specifically, yoga, with her students. Her goal is to help teenagers find and fall in love with their true, authentic self - something that took Tina almost 40 years to do. She is also a yoga instructor, sharing her love of the mind body connection with members of her community at various studios and on her YouTube Channel: Yoga Flow with Tina. In her spare time, Tina loves to run, hike, swim, practice yoga, try new recipes and play games and do crafts with her husband Nick, and her kids Ben and Lily.