If you grew up in an Eastern European family, there's a good chance you can remember, quite precisely, the first time someone commented on your body.
An aunt at a birthday. A grandmother handing you a plate. A mother, tender and worried in equal measure, saying something about your waist, your face, your legs, usually in the same sentence as something loving.
These moments are not unique to Eastern European families, of course. But they have a particular flavour there, direct, physical, framed as care, and they leave a particular kind of mark.
Much of my doctoral research listened closely to how women from post-Soviet backgrounds describe growing up around their bodies. What comes through, again and again, is not a story of cruelty. It's a story of love and appearance getting tangled together very early, in a way that takes years to untangle.
Where the messages came from
Before anything else, it helps to place these messages in their context. The generations who raised us grew up in a world where beauty and thinness were not just aesthetic preferences, they were survival tools. In economies of scarcity, in cultures where women's options were narrow, being "well-presented" was one of the very few forms of social currency women were allowed. Grandmothers and mothers who policed their daughters' bodies were often, in their own way, trying to protect them.
That's not an excuse. It's a context. And holding both, this hurt me and they were doing what they knew, is often the beginning of real freedom, rather than continued anger or forced forgiveness.
The particular texture of the messages
A few patterns come up repeatedly:
Care expressed through the body. Food is love; refusing food is refusing love. A comment on your appearance is not small talk, it's an intimate act. Sometimes a warm one, sometimes a wounding one, often both at once.
Directness that would be shocking elsewhere. "You've put on weight." "Your face looks tired." "You'd be beautiful if…" These are said as ordinary observations, often by people who love you deeply. If you now live in a culture where such things are simply not said, the contrast can be jarring, both when you visit home, and when you catch yourself thinking that way about your own body.
High grooming standards as a form of self-respect. The idea that leaving the house without effort is a kind of failure, of self-care, of manners, of dignity. Empowering in some ways; exhausting in others.
Weight framed as a moral matter. Thinness read as discipline; a fuller body read as "letting yourself go." These are cultural interpretations, not truths, but they can settle very deep.
Living with the inheritance
If you grew up inside this, you may notice that:
- You can't tell whether a compliment about your appearance is landing as love or as pressure.
- You catch yourself echoing the same lines to yourself, sometimes in the same voice.
- Visits home reset you in ways you didn't expect.
- You feel guilty for finding the messages painful, because they came from people who love you.
All of this is very normal. It doesn't mean your family failed you. It means you inherited a way of seeing bodies, and you now get to decide what to do with it.
Untangling it, gently
The work here is rarely about cutting anyone off or having a dramatic conversation. It's slower and quieter than that.
Name what you inherited. Put words on the specific messages you grew up with. Not to indict anyone, just to make them visible. Invisible rules run your life. Named rules can be examined.
Separate love from message. The love was real. The message was optional. You are allowed to keep the first and put the second down.
Notice which voice is speaking. When a harsh thought about your body arrives, ask: whose voice is this in? Often it isn't yours at all, it belongs to a very specific person, in a very specific kitchen, many years ago.
Let yourself hold both sides. You can love your culture, feed your children the same soup, keep the language and the recipes, and also choose not to pass on the appearance commentary. Culture is not all or nothing.
You're not betraying anyone
Choosing a softer relationship with your body is not a rejection of the women who raised you. It's often, quietly, an act of continuation, the same protectiveness they had for you, now turned inwards. That is the change that gets passed on.