Bend Over: Mormon Modesty, Body Image, and the Politics of Thinness

Mormon modesty checks. Lexapro-induced thinness. Media's return to “heroin chic.” In this essay, I unpack the personal and political roots of body shame—and what it takes to break free.

"You need to go back to your room and change,"

my camp counselor said after I showed up to morning prayer without an undershirt beneath my V-neck T-shirt.

The least enjoyable part of attending Mormon summer camp—Especially For Youth (EFY)—was the body and outfit checks. Every morning, we girls stood in front of our counselors. We were instructed to bend over to ensure that no cleavage peeked out of our tops. Then we’d stand upright with our arms down by our sides, using our fingertips to measure the “appropriate” length of our skirts, shorts, or dresses.

One might expect me to blame the counselors who enforced these standards, but they were just a small cog in the larger body-image-destroying machine that is Mormonism.

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"Look, Cindy, it’s you!"

My 10-year-old self sat in front of the family computer, surrounded by my siblings pointing at a photo of a little blonde girl on the landing page of an osteoporosis website. I was entirely naïve, so when they told me I had osteoporosis (I did not) because I was "so bony," I genuinely believed them.

This narrative—you are too skinny, you are not enough—was repeated throughout my childhood.

“Mind fuck” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

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Skinny = Privilege

As I entered adulthood, got married, and had babies, my body changed rapidly. On top of that, I was dealing with mental health issues that deeply affected my body image.

“Cindy. You lost so much weight! You look so much better!”

I stood in the bowling alley where my family reunion was gathering, looking at my dad and wondering in what world he thought that remark would be taken positively. Yes, I had lost a significant amount of weight. But while thinness is generally equated with success, the road to that point was anything but glamorous.

A couple of months prior to that comment from my father, I started taking my first SSRI—Lexapro. The adjustment period ripped me apart from the inside. I couldn’t eat, and when I did, I felt worse. I experienced nausea only comparable to morning sickness. It was torture.

Let me be clear about where my head was at during this time. On the surface, I was glad I got “skinny.” Skinny meant pretty. Skinny meant safe. Skinny meant surpassing social biases.

Skinny = privilege.

But deep down, I knew—and resented—that people, my father in this case, would see me as somehow better than I was before, when I was 20 pounds heavier. As if that fuller version of myself was less valuable.