"You're getting fat."

August 2001, just before the seventh grade, my mom had a heart attack. She had to have several surgeries, and having to stay in bed made her more volatile than usual towards me.

One day I was trying to eat dinner with her, and she said, "You should stop eating so much. You're getting fat."

I was stunned that she would say that to me. She was far from thin, while I couldn't keep a size 3 in Levi's from falling off my hips.

This comment clung to me so tightly that, eight years later on my R&R from my Afghanistan deployment, I sat and cried in a changing room when I realized that I was a size 4.