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"She's a mini you!" they say, gushing over her big brown eyes and long thick hair as she spins in circles in the grass or dances around the aisle in the supermarket.

And they are right. She has my eyes, and my wavy rebellious hair. She also has my thighs, feet, and lips. Gigi is witty and smart and curious and beautiful, and I've spent five whole years nodding along with every relative, friend, and stranger who told me she is exactly like me, even though I thought exactly none of those things about myself.

I woke up each morning and thought, Jesus, she is the most magnificent girl I have ever seen. And then I walked to my bathroom to get ready for the day and swore under my breath at the haggard and fat reflection staring back at me. Until one day it hit me. In a few years Gigi will stand in front of her own mirror, hating her own thick thighs and giant feet. She'll call herself fat and disgusting. She might even think, for a moment, that it would just be easier to not exist at all. I don't know what would destroy me more. The part that she could even for one moment think that she is anything other than beautiful, or the fact that she learned it all from me.

Being a mother to boys has been completely different than being a mother to a girl. I love them all the same, that goes without saying. There are just some things a little more terrifyingly relatable to raising a girl.

Some of them are obvious, like when Jude and Wyatt exclaimed during her first diaper change, "Why hasn't her pee-pee come in yet?" Or, "Why does she have two butts?"

But the rest could only be picked up by a skilled eye. The way she'd linger in the bathroom to watch my nighttime routine or stand in my closet as I picked out dresses for a night out. Unlike my husband Andy, whose eyes glazed over when I would talk to him about clothes and makeup, Gigi would listen, wide-eyed, soaking it all in. It was momentarily lovely to have someone there to talk to. Until I realized that that someone was not my friend, but my very young daughter.

When they say you're not supposed to be friends with your kids, this is what they mean. All right, yeah, they also mean don't buy them beer and condoms and stuff, but more important, treating your little girl like a friend in place of actual friends is a terrible mistake.

One afternoon I watched her put on a fancy princess dress and walk to the mirror, frown, and touch her stomach in a way that brought me to my knees. She wasn't twirling or smiling or thinking about how sparkly and pretty she looked; she was mimicking the way I'd touch my stomach standing in front of the mirror, pressing my palm into my gut hoping to eventually just hit a reset button. I was not Gigi's friend at all. I was the woman ruining her life.

I was drowning in self-loathing, and the only way I could save her was to save myself.

Looking my daughter in the face and telling her she was just like me, and in the next breath destroying my body in front of her, was a catastrophic mixed message. I was drowning in self-loathing, and the only way I could save her was to save myself. The problem was I had no idea how. I had been involved in a decades-long turf war with my weight; it's truly all I knew. I was able to completely ignore all the miraculous things I had done despite my size. I had fallen in love, gotten married, had three healthy kids, and launched a booming career. I also never lost any friends due to my size, and to my knowledge, Andy has no plans to divorce me because I weigh over 200 pounds. I was healthy and successful; so what if it made jeans shopping harder or airplane seats tighter? But even if I was able to shut off the societal propaganda about how the better, thinner, half lives, how could I ever convince myself that decades of beauty standards could legitimately be wrong?

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I've never read The Secret. I am not a huge believer in hypnosis or positive thinking. My enthusiasm toward new-age hippiedom extends to almond milk and Nick Drake albums. But I started getting up each morning and saying three positive things about my body. It felt fake at first.

"My hair is pretty." (But I have two chins and my face is round.)

"My chest is sexy." (My stomach pooch hangs over my privates.)

"The area at the bottom of my ribs makes for a nice waist." (My legs are full of dimples and veins.)

My original goal was to prove to a preschooler that I loved my body and that she should, too. But, as months passed, the positive affirmations were no longer followed by faults. I did have great hair, my breasts were amazing, and I had a really great waist and hourglass figure. I still knew there were things about my body that I didn't love, but the good began to outnumber the bad.

A few months ago I was naked in the closet looking for clothes and Gigi came up to me, put her arms around my waist, and told me my stomach was big. Immediately I recoiled and covered myself with the towel from my hair.

"Gigi, you can't tell people their stomach is big," I scolded her.

"Why not?" she asked, confused.

"Because it's mean."

"Why is that mean? I think being big is good."

As far as she is concerned, I'm just mom-shaped and perfect for hugs.

And then it occurred to me that she had no idea that big meant fat, and that fat was a bad thing. As far as she is concerned, I'm just mom-shaped and perfect for hugs. I put a moratorium on the supply of negative body words I was thoughtlessly supplying. I banned the use of fat as a slur hurled toward myself and strangers. I'm not saying I don't see fat; saying that is akin to the people who make grand statements about "not seeing color." Seeing color doesn't mean you're a racist. It means your eyes work, but that you are hopefully able to see color not for a discrepancy in normal, but as a beautiful component of diversity. We can't all be Gisele Bündchen, but good heavens, can you imagine if more of you were? Think of all the XXLs that would be left behind for me at Target!

I stopped glorifying women as beautiful only if they were also thin. In fact, beautiful was the very last thing I decided I would tell Gigi she was each day, after brilliant, hilarious, curious, creative, and daring.

When I get on an airplane, I always listen to the safety instructions the flight attendants recite before takeoff. Once they point to all the exits and explain flotation devices, they get to this part about oxygen masks that drop from the ceiling should the cabin change pressure.

If you are traveling with children or are seated next to someone who needs assistance, place the mask on yourself first, then offer assistance.

Even in a life-or-death situation, we are told to first secure ourselves in order to better help others. It makes sense. I can't put a mask on a baby if I'm passed out, and I certainly can't tell anyone to stop hating themselves while I binge and purge my feelings. Remind yourself of all the ways you are beautiful and do what it takes to get comfortable in your skin. These things were essential to help my daughter love the body I created for her. I just had to get my own oxygen mask on first.

From the forthcoming book Fat Girl Walking: Sex, Food, Love, and Being Comfortable in Your Skin ... Every Inch of It by Brittany Gibbons. Copyright © 2015 by Brittany Gibbons. To be published on May 19, 2015 by Dey Street Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.

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