Not only that, but it’s been selected for inclusion in NEDA’s Eating Disorder Awareness Week blogroll.  I’m honored to be in such good company!

Here’s my latest post, called The Oscars Kick Off EDAW. (Which is a Bad Thing.) It’s all about the Oscars, that bit on boobs, Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and what Mindy Kaling has to say about things.

I’ve moved to a new home on twitter, @Dr_UdallWeiner, and on Facebook, ED Educate.  Please come by for a visit–I’d love to see you.

Ipad.  Iphone.  Camcorder.  We do it all.

But at times, I wonder about the effect of all this moving making.  I wonder about how my children—and your children—will be impacted by having so much of their lives captured and preserved.  By staring in a movie that begins the moment they enter this world, and continues on without end.

When kids seem themselves onscreen, they watch in wonder.  They are mesmerized by how their face looks when they scrunch it up, amazed that they can do that thing with their tongue, proud at the sound of their own voice.  Kids get something very basic from watching themselves:  confirmation of existence; recognition of the self.  “Whoa, that’s me.”

Almost anyone would find such self-absorption annoying in an adult.  But for a child, it represents narcissism in an age-appropriate way; kids are supposed to be self-consumed and egotistical.  As my 4 year-old recently said to me, “I’m the most special kid at school, so I don’t have to follow the rules.”  Never mind the fact that I turned white and nearly choked on my sandwich; never mind that she said it eyes askance, in that testing, 4 year-old way: what she said was patently normal.

If child development theories have it right, this self-absorption eventually wanes, and children become increasingly empathetic as their relational capacity swells.  In other words, they learn to identify the needs and experiences of others as being distinct from their own.  And they develop the ability to understand how another person might feel, even if they are not having an identical experience themselves.

But over the past few years, experts have argued that narcissism is on the rise, both in adults and in teens.  And if this is true, it means that normal childhood self-absorption may stick around longer than predicted, and mutate from appropriate to alarming as kids fail to outgrow it.

Examples of narcissism abound in popular culture.  Take, for example, reality TV, with its high concentration of megalomaniacs who behave in ways most of us find appalling (and yet we watch, because narcissism makes for some good TV).  There’s also what I call the American Idol Effect, in which people who lack talent are so deluded and self-absorbed that they get onstage, sing their hearts out, and are genuinely confounded by the negative feedback they receive.  I imagine that such folks have received only buckets of praise in the past, which leaves them lacking when it comes to accurate self-evaluation.  Or maybe they’ve heard criticism but rejected it, because it contradicts what they believe about themselves (or want to believe).

And finally, there is Facebook.  Facebook has been described as both a contributor to narcissism, as well as its mere reflection.  But the truth is perhaps somewhere in between.  As Keith Campbell, a psychology professor at the University of Georgia, explains it, “Narcissism and self-esteem began to rise in the 1980s.  Because Facebook came on the scene only [eleven] years ago, it wasn’t the original cause of the increases.  It may be just another enforcer.”

If it’s true that Facebook reinforces narcissism in adults, then what does it do to our children?  Because really, most parents aren’t constructing only a highly-edited narrative of their own lives online, but also a highly-edited narrative of their children’s.  Here’s Suzy eating peas!  Here’s Suzy winning first place in the gunny sack race!  Here’s Suzy…

In essence, the issue is not just one of parents turned paparazzi; it’s the fact that all those adorable photos and videos have their run on the world’s largest stage:  Facebook.  And all this happens before most kids are even old enough to log in and set up an account of their own.

Many parents are discrete in their use of Facebook; many are thoughtful in terms of what they post.  And through its ability to tie together far-flung families and friends, Facebook is not without virtue.  I remember the days of breastfeeding and reflux–the cries of an infant in pain, my own inability to soothe her.   Facebook provided distraction, connection, and a means to tolerate the isolation I experienced.  For this, I am grateful.  And don’t get me wrong:  I still love me some Facebook, and curl up with it more often than I care to admit.  Plus, I post about my kids, albeit in a (hopefully) judicious manner.

But we don’t yet know how this story will end, as ours is the first generation of children to grow up with their lives enshrined on Facebook.  It’s possible that little Suzy’s life will be littered with the detritus of narcissism, in part because we’ve made her believe that everything she does merits preservation–or even worse–applause.  It’s possible that she’ll develop a need for constant attention and praise, or an insatiable thirst for power–both of which could sabotage her chances for giving and receiving love and thriving in her community.

Narcissism is too complex to be explained by any one factor, even a medium as engrossing in effect and far-reaching in scope as Facebook.  In reality, there are likely biological and environmental factors which relate to this trait, as well as to its most extreme manifestation:  Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

Regardless, it’s worth it to stop and wonder about these things.  Because if we don’t think about how our actions will potentially impact our children, then perhaps the narcissism we need to fear most is our own.

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How do you decide what to post on Facebook?  Do you agree that narcissism seems to be on the rise?  And do you worry about your own child becoming narcissistic?

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Photos via Flickr’s Creative Commons:  1. sfrancisball; 2. Wyoming_Jackrabbit

Maybe it’s because the frenetic pulse of early summer, with all its heat and promise, has started to slow.  Or maybe it’s because my own intense and consuming projects will soon come to a quiet close–their messy ends gathered, tucked, and woven into near completion.  But whatever the reason, my urge to write has drifted back.

For me, this urge is usually associated with a thirst for solitude and quiet contemplation.  It’s as though my social side has danced wildly, and now seeks repose.  Extroversion replaced by introversion.  Talking replaced by noticing.  Living not just once, but twice. 

As Natalie Goldberg explains, “[Writers] go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed for work in the morning.  But there’s another part of them that they have been training.  The one that lives everything a second time.  That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it.  Looks at the texture and the details.”

This living twice?  It takes time.

And for me, it takes a willingness to allow my memories–of the shadows which played across the sand that lovely afternoon; of the conversation that went so wrong–to thunder around in my head until they wear themselves out.  Because it’s only then that I can fully discern their heft and meaning, and see both intimately, and with perspective.

It’s not coincidental that this urge to write–and to live twice–coincides with changes in my children.  In most ways, the intensity of early motherhood has diminished.  No longer inclined to remain tightly tethered to their mom, my children have expanded their orbit.  And with this new plasticity, they go farther afield to learn this wide world.

Which allows me space to ask my own questions, to come up for air and wonder big thoughts.  And it is writing, more than anything else, which structures and clarifies these thoughts–which provides a framework for question and answer, or for muddling about in the chaos.

There is something deep and vivid which can be extinguished by the day-to-day drudgery of responsibility and requirement.  But through the process of making something—through word or paint or lens—we’re given the chance to relinquish our need for certainty, and to float buoyantly among the sublime unknown.

And so, I write.

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What creative outlets do you have?  Does being a parent make you more or less creative?  And how do you find time and space to get those creative juices flowing?  

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A special thank-you to Mara of Medicinal Marzipan for her beautiful post on writing; it inspired my own.

Photo by   eflon via Flickr’s Creative Commons.

This, from a wise teacher named Sarah, to a class of Nia students who spanned the spectrum of form and fitness.  This, to a class bound more by a shared loved of movement, and a hedonistic drive for pleasure, than by any perfectionistic notion that we were there to master the jazz square.

You are all dancers.

Her message was met by groans, many of us embarrassed to accept that designation, hesitant to believe that it could ever apply to us.

Because dancer implies that someone is good at dancing, or maybe that she gets paid to move for the pleasure of others (and, we hope, for her own pleasure, too).  But at one time, when we were mere wisps of the adults we would one day become, all of us danced in the most organic sense; we instinctively moved our bodies, naturally inclined to jerk and sway and stomp.   We responded to rhythm that pulsated in our heads; we translated sweet melodies into motion.  Before we gave it a name, and self-consciously defined the act of moving, we were all dancers.

During that precious period when the me is not yet delineated from the not-me, our curiosity is expansive, our confidence deep.  We are tree-climbers and singers and poets and soccer players.  Because we do these activities.  And that is sufficient.

But somewhere along the way, most of us discard these labels—these identities—as we discard the pink tutu and the paintbrush.  Who me?  I’m not a dancer.  Or a singer.  Or an artist.  Or a writer.  Or a swimmer…

We peel away these labels over the course of childhood and adolescence.  And when we reach adulthood, our other roles—the ones legitimized by financial compensation (worker, boss, employee) or those which are socially sanctioned or biologically derived (mother, wife, partner)–seem to fill up our time and fill in our sense of self.

Perhaps the phenomenon of self-definition is inherently one of constriction.  Based on the repetition of behaviors–which results in habits, familiar and entrenched–as well as the process of conscious choice, we develop a more definitive sense of who we are.  But as we say yes to one option, another necessarily falls away.  And so we define and grow into ourselves, with the lines and limits of our personality sketched ever-deeper.

There are certainly benefits to this; I would never want to return to my teenage years, when my identity was more fluid but also, at times, uncomfortably convoluted.  But I do miss the open-ended sense of self that I used to experience; the idea that I was pliant, that I could be supple and unpredictable, that I could keep changing forever.

At times, adulthood can feel to me a bit like stagnation—as though I’ve theoretically arrived, but not landed quite where I expected.   And this experience calls for recalibration and a softening of plans.  To greet reality we often need to make such concessions in order to accommodate what is, and to adapt to things we never anticipated.

But maybe we can do more than this:  Perhaps by embracing identities we long ago discarded, we can eke out new pathways and churn through periods of stagnation.   We can remember who we used to be, and find again that 5 year-old dancer, just waiting for the music to start.

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So who were you, before you knew?  What did you love to do?  And have you ever tried Nia?  (You can learn more about the fabulous studio where I take classes here. To find a studio in your area, click here.)

Photo by  merlinprincesse via Flickr’s Creative Commons.

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I’ve written often about my difficulty with motherhood (here, here and here, for example).  And each time I do so, I worry about how my daughters will respond when they, one day, read the ancient musings of their mother.  Will they confuse my feelings about the role of motherhood with my feelings about them?  Will they believe, if I acknowledge frustration with the fact that motherhood tends to be isolating and repetitious for me, that I love them less?  Or that they are responsible for my feelings?

The concept of modern motherhood is nothing if not a contradiction: we are told that we’re responsible for everything our child does, but then that we’ve overstepped our bounds and become too controlling; we are told to keep all potentially harmful substances—from pesticides to plastics–away from our children, but then told we should give our kids freedom and room to roam; we are taught to attend to their emotional, social, physical, intellectual, and spiritual needs, but then written off as helicopter parents, unable to separate from the children we’ve inadvertently smothered.  (But don’t dare back too far away from your precious and needy children, lest you want to be called selfish–perhaps the biggest sin in motherhood.)

This confusion about the optimal distance between mother and child boils down to this:  Are mothers supposed to have their own lives and experiences, independent from those of their children?  Most of us would answer a resounding “yes.”  Yet it’s likely we still fear that our distance may harm our children, because it implies that our availability will be limited.  (If you disagree, consider the so-called Mommy wars, and the heated debate about whether the children of working mothers are damaged by being in daycare; this remains an emotionally loaded and highly provocative issue.)

Another incarnation of this question is whether mothers are entitled to have—and give voice to—their negative experiences with motherhood.  Publicly acknowledging such sentiments may feel taboo, as though a sacred institutional pact has been breached by a disloyal member.  

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On days in which parenting takes the wind from my sails, I think of the ballerina in my daughter’s musical jewelry box.  Each time the box is opened, I’m surprised to see her spring to life; I assume that she’s been permanently destroyed, due to rough treatment from dirt-encrusted hands and a sharp hinge which comes dangerously close to decapitating her.  But there she is, rising again when the box is next opened, turning steadily as ever to the tune of “It’s a Small World.”  

Most mothers can likely relate to this tenacious plastic doll: we endure and persevere, and sometimes surprise ourselves with our own resiliency.  But, unlike the doll, we need to vent and spill and gripe about our lives, especially on days when our own spring fails–days when we’re not sure we’re cut out for this thing called motherhood.   In the end, there is no template, no right way to be a mom.  And at times, we all feel dissatisfaction and despair.  But ideally we can surround ourselves not just with children and their buckets of toys and clothes and carriers, but with other mothers who speak their truth and say, “I hear you” when we speak ours.

How about you–do you tell others if you’re struggling?  And do you think mothers are encouraged to speak of their dissatisfaction with the role?

Photo by Tilemahos Efthimiadis, via Flickr’s Creative Commons License.

Bravery, as you’ll see, looks different for each of us; its particulars vary in accordance with who we are, how we live, what we need.  And yet many of us have sought to embody bravery for the same purpose: to value and present our authentic selves; to tolerate and find comfort within the very real delineations of our identity.

(Who knew it took so much courage just to be real?)

Thanks again to all those who took the time to craft such beautiful posts.  Happy reading!

Bravery in Unexpected Places  (by Weightless)

Confidence Takes Courage (by Health for the Whole Self)

Bravery: A Little Every Day (by Mind, Body & Scroll)

On Feeling Small and Learning to be Brave (by Medicinal Marzipan)

Bravery and OCPD (by The Writing Goddess)

One Brave Little Soul (by Nourishing the Soul)

I Never Thought I was Brave (by Voice in Recovery)

It Takes Guts to be Your Kind of Awesome (by Looking in the Mirror)

On Bravery: Why Jumping out of Planes is Easy (by Cynosure)

What Bravery Means to Me (by Chibi Jeebs & the Neurotic Struggle)

Bravery (by Girl Before a Mirror)

The Bravest Thing (by Handprint Soul)

Brave Enough (by Recovery, PJ Style)

Bravery: Self Discovery, Word by Word (by Butter and Barbells)

From the Therapist’s Chair:  Seeing Extrardinary Bravery (by Healthy Balanced Life)

To learn more about Self-Discovery, Word by Word, including how to participate in upcoming months, visit Dr. Ashley Solomon at Nourishing the Soul.

I learned this unexpected lesson recently when, in a rush, I let pragmatism trump principle, and bought a birthday present from Toys ‘R Us, rather than a responsibly-stocked local store.

It looked benign enough, with bright colored packaging and cheery font: Totally Me! Stylin’ Bead Boutique screamed FUN!!! in a 6 year-old girl sort of way.  I imagined stubby fingers maneuvering the metal and plastic beads over loops of twine which would later adorn necks and wrists; I imagined pride at being able to create and then display the final product.

But I didn’t imagine this: “Contains lead.  May be harmful if eaten or chewed.  May generate dust containing lead.” 

Wait, what?

It was when I went to wrap the gift that I noticed the inconspicuous warning (written in a modest black font that seemed incongruous with the alarming content of its message). I scanned the package hoping to find something that would explain—in legal or medical terms—what it meant.  But all I found was another warning which recommended the toy for children five years and older, given the potential for choking on its small parts.

The coupling of these messages demonstrated that Toys ‘R Us (the toy’s manufacturer and distributor) understood that the pieces could end up in the mouths of babes (because why else would they be a choking hazard?) and used lead all the same. 

But age, in fact, is largely irrelevant: The tendency to sample inedible objects doesn’t stop at five years old.  Many a teenage girl has spent hours fiddling with and chewing on her necklace, even if she’s unlikely to actually ingest and choke on it.  The real problem, of course, is not whether the toy is used by a two or a seven year-old, it is the lead.

When I took back the bead set–and of course I took it back–the manager refunded my money without question, and stated that she too had noticed the lead warning as she stocked the shelves.  (Which clearly didn’t stop her from displaying the item, or contacting anyone about the matter.)

So I wasn’t the only one who took note.  But was I overreacting?  And why did the toy giant affix the lead warning in the first place?  To find out, I contacted Toys ‘R Us Corporate.

Surprisingly, my call was returned within the hour, and I found myself connected to a woman who sounded at once pleasant and weary.  She explained that Toys ‘R Us voluntarily choose to label toys which contained a small–but legally acceptable–amount of lead after the company became aware that some autistic children have a negative reaction to the substance.

From the sound of it, the labels had caused quite an uproar among concerned parents like me—which she attributed to the label’s wording, rather than to the fact that lead was used in the first place.

The woman at corporate attempted to enlighten me about the process of toy production: To obtain the perfect hue or the sufficient sparkle, lead is required.  At least if you’re trying to make toys on the cheap.  She explained that there was no way that Toys ‘R Us could produce reasonably priced toys without using lead, in fact.

I argued on behalf of the underdog—the small, responsible toy company who makes wonderful products without toxic substances—who forsakes hue for health.  She countered that most people in theUnited Statescan’t find such toys, and that such companies don’t make their products in sufficient quantity for Toys ‘R Us to buy and ship them around the globe.  In essence, the good, safe toys are in short supply.

Despite her plaintive tone and seemingly earnest stance, I didn’t feel sorry for Toys ‘R Us, who–as she implied–was making the best of a bad situation.  Then and now, I find it hard to believe that the toy giant can’t find a way to subsidize or collaborate with small, responsible toy companies to bolster production without compromising quality.  Or to derive a new business model that would benefit not just shareholders, but those most at risk—children—as well as the planet.

Yet my brain began to dispense with some of its vitriol after that conversation, and I found myself wondering whether the public, as well as Toys ‘R Us, played a role in this problematic equation.  Wasn’t it consumers who demanded a rainbow of color and a spectrum of shimmer, all at a nearly impossible price?  Didn’t our addiction to mass-produced plastic have something to do with it?

This issue is one of chicken and egg, because toy companies prey on and foment our demand, and we, in turn, keep them in business by shelling out dollars for poorly-crafted crap.

As I sit typing on my home computer in my home office, it is clear to me that I occupy a seat of privilege; I have the choice to purchase toys from responsible producers because I am able to pay more.  Many parents of limited economic means are faced with seemingly grim options: deny their children high quality toys (which are impossibly expensive); participate in toy lending programs (which are mostly wonderful–particularly as an adjunctive strategy–but which limit a child’s ability to form long-term attachment to a toy or to use it as a transitional object); or purchase low-grade, potentially hazardous toys.

You could argue that people from economically disadvantaged homes have an even greater incentive to buy toys of the beautiful and bejeweled variety, primarily because their income doesn’t grant them power to buy real objects of value and note.  Basic wooden toys in primary colors—as opposed to flashy, mechanized ones–may denote poverty or lack, rather than conscious choice.  And people of all economic classes get roped into a system that associates status with possessions, happiness with things.

Can't anything be a toy?

Then there’s the role of symbolism: Maybe a girl who has grown up in substandard housing has more need for a pink, plastic tiara—and all the stability and privilege it represents—than one who lives behind gates on a gently sloping hill.

On the other hand, it’s likely that kids need fantasy and imaginary play more than anything—a way to escape the very real drama that comes with tyrannical parents or high-pressure schools or rat-infested bedrooms or food insecurity.  The actual toy may be less important than an unhurried schedule and a safe, nurturing space in which to play and practice at life.

If that’s the case, then shimmer is overrated.  And lead is inexcusable, no matter how you slice (or melt) it.

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Have you seen these warnings?  What do you think about the use of lead in toys?

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To learn more about how our highly commercialized culture affects children, visit the Campaign for a Commercial Free Childhood; to learn more about lead in toys, the CDC has some basic information, or you can click here to learn more about advocacy efforts to eliminate lead.

Photo credit: 1. Picture of the bead set by Toys ‘R Us; 2.  safoocat; 3. Swiv (2 & 3 via Flickr’s Creative Commons License)

As a result, bravery seems largely inaccessible—a virtue reserved for the average person presented with unthinkable circumstances, such as hurricane Katrina, or to heroes whose stories—real or fabricated—seem remote or even irrelevant to our daily lives.  Because really, when was the last time you needed to escape from a marauding band of warriors?  Or to settle a dispute with your neighbor while wearing chain mail?

Even though hand-to-hand combat seems more barbaric than laudable in these modern, technologically saturated times, life regularly calls for ordinary bravery—the kind of gritty chutzpah or pluck required to survive the quotidian.

Bravery of this flavor is subtle and understated; it is a deep pulse that carries us onward and steadies us as we face life’s less dramatic waves.  Woven into the concepts of flexibility and perseverance, this small “b” bravery helps us befriend the notion that change comes not through grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but through slow and deliberate practice.

Sometimes we confuse bravery with stoicism; we tell ourselves to buck up or snap out of it because we believe this is the strong thing to do—the thing that will reinstate a sense of control or make us feel powerful.  And yet denying our experience doesn’t take much bravery; it’s actually quite easy to press fast-forward and hide from ourselves or the reality of life.

The more courageous route would be to acknowledge the feelings or thoughts, even those that are unpleasant or so-called negative, and to examine them a bit.  Do they nest in our stomach or our shoulders?  What do they tell us?  And how can we learn from them?

Bravery may be a cake walk when others are watching; we can easily fulfill public promises and do ourselves proud.  But when we are only in the company of ourselves, when we occupy a single bed or a table for one, does our mettle begin to melt?  Do we find it hard to follow through on our intention to take better care of our bodies, or to turn off the ever-buzzing media so that we come to know the landscape of our own vantage point?  Are we able to confront a history that we’d just as soon forget, or to shun a cultural imperative that is clearly detrimental to our lives?

Unlike its swashbuckling, big “B” cousin, psychological bravery can slip by unnoticed and unappreciated; it doesn’t make headlines or win us any awards.  But there’s something precious about this dark horse of a quality, because it tethers us to meaning, purpose and dignity—to the most essential parts of who we are.

And it doesn’t call for chain mail.  Which is a win in my book.

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What does bravery mean to you?  And when have you been most brave?

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This post is part of the Self Discovery, Word by Word series.  Interested in participating?  Click here to find out how.

Photo credits:  1. Rainy Monday; 2.  dank1012, both via Flickr’s Creative Commons License.

The purpose of Ashley’s SDWW series is to encourage the blogging community to engage in self-reflection as it unites and huddles around a particular word.  You can learn more about the series here.  And if you’d like to participate this month—and yes, of course you should!–here is what you can do:

1. Write a post on your blog about the word bravery.
2. Include the SDWW icon in your post, so that you can identify yourself as a participant, and so that we can find each other in the great big web!
3. To ensure that I know about your post, email or tweet me the link. Or, you can post it on the Body and the Brood Facebook page.  But however you do it, be sure you notify me by Friday, June 17^th (can you believe it’s already June?).  I’ll link to all of your posts on Tuesday, June 21.

File this one under “Duh.”

Though unsurprising, axiomatic studies like this one serve an important purpose: They speak to our culture’s profound fear of obesity, and they remind us that we might rightly be shocked by such degrading and dehumanizing depictions.  As it is, a large number of us will fail to see the prejudice and hatred which fuel the use of these images, because we’ve come to see obese individuals as “symbols of an epidemic rather than valued members of society,” explains Rebecca Puhl, one of the study’s authors.

What if overweight individuals were photographed in a positive way like this?

Our unchecked loathing of obesity can be found lurking in ostensibly benign places, such as conversations about health, wellness, and fitness.  Yes, it sounds like we’re talking about biology—such as the number on the scale or how we fare on measures of cardiovascular fitness.  But underneath our words are fierce currents of hatred and shame, because being fat conjures up an entire debate about morality and personal responsibility; science is not easily divorced from the cultural deification of thinness.

To be fair, the rise in childhood obesity and its associated sequalae, such as diabetes, is rightly concerning.  But what we’re learning is that shame-based tactics don’t contribute to the reduction of weight, on a personal or aggregate level.  Another study by the same authors at Yale, including principle investigator Rebecca Puhl, found that individuals who internalize the stigma of being overweight are less likely to lose weight.  As she explained in a recent Hartford Courant article by William Weir, “When [people are] stigmatized by their weight, they’re more likely to engage in unhealthy eating.  Stigma is a form of stress and a common coping method is eating food.”

The take-home?  Negative portrayals of obese individuals don’t encourage people to eat healthier and to lose weight.  If anything, such images are more likely to reduce the self-esteem of obese individuals, which then creates a disincentive to engage in self-care and, in particular, healthy eating.

All this calls into question a recent initiative by the San Antonio school board to photograph the lunch trays of school children before and after they’ve eaten.  The aim, which sounds laudable enough, is to reduce obesity and to improve dietary habits.

Yet such an approach doesn’t empower children to make healthy choices when it comes to food.  Rather, it relies upon the fear of being found out—of knowing that your dietary peccadilloes will be recorded by a camera and then communicated to your parents.  As if the cafeteria weren’t challenging enough already–with its nuanced social interactions related to where and with whom you sit, and peer-to-peer evaluation of the contents of your tray, now mom and dad—and the school board!—have a surrogate set of eyes in the lunch room.  What pressure!  What shame!

It’s hard to identify a front on which we are winning the war on obesity.  And it certainly feels as though we are engaged in a war; just ask Michelle Obama, who has catapulted obesity from mere enemy of the people, to enemy of the state.

Perhaps it is because we have drawn upon military analogies and strategies that we have failed so miserably.  When we choose to attack obesity, we are really declaring war upon ourselves:  our genetics, our predilection to eat more than we physically need, our emotional hunger (which is often mistaken for physical hunger), and the very real human tendency to struggle with moderation on a variety of fronts.

And then there are the variables frequently neglected in the discussion of obesity and weight, those like ethnicity, religion, and gender.  It’s unclear how we can win a war on obesity if doing so means asking people to relinquish an essential part of their cultural, religious or regional identity—a part that involves eating foods which may be low in nutritional value but nonetheless steeped in tradition and ritual.  Any attempt to eradicate obesity must necessarily consider the very real issue of socioeconomic status and class affiliation, as well.

We might consider abandoning our military strategy—and the underlying prejudice regarding weight—in favor of the Health at Every Size (HAES) approach.  HAES democratizes the concept of health, and purports that it is available to all.  It is a philosophy based more on acceptance, and working within existing parameters, than on pushing untenable weight loss efforts (which usually fail, anyway).  Such a shift would encourage us to develop a healthy relationship with all foods—the good and the bad—and with our bodies: one based on self-care and thoughtfulness, rather than fear of being watched, photographed, or teased.

Sadly, the war on obesity has become the war on the obese.  Our culture’s articulated and tacit fear of fat often drives health initiatives regarding weight loss, which likely reduces the impact of such efforts and marginalizes an increasing number of Americans.

Surely, we can do better, on metrics of equality and simple kindness, as well as health.

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Do you think the war on obesity has gone too far, in that it targets people, rather than the problem itself?  And should we be more accepting of a diversity of sizes?

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Photo by lululemon athletica via Flickr’s Creative Commons.