The pain in My Back Is Made of Shame, Not Neglect.

It’s not just stress. It’s not just exhaustion. The pain in my back isn’t from bad posture- it’s from the shame that crawls up my spine every time someone looks at my son’s weight chart and then looks at me.

They ask if he eats three meals a day and snacks. He does. I offer. I try. But sometimes, he just.. won’t. And I can’t force it- not without turning food into a battlefield. So i give him what he loves. I count calories quietly. I smile and act like I’m not terrified.

And still, the comments come. The looks. The suggestions wrapped in judgement. “Hopefully they’re giving him the pediasure we told them to.” He jokes that all he eats is chips, and they believe him. And I sit there, feeling like I’ve failed in front of people who don’t see the war I’ve already fought just to get us to dinner.

Sometimes I feel like I’m doing it alone. I know I’m not. logically, He’s here. He helps. But the weight- the food, the appointments, the tracking, the worry- it lives in my body.

Because I’m the one who sees when something’s off. I’m the one checking his face, his energy, the way he moves. I’m the one holding the guilt when he refuses to eat, like somehow that refusal is a reflection of me. And underneath all of it is the fear that one day, someone will misread it. Will think I’m not enough. Will think he’s not safe.

That fear started in the NICU.

Back then, everything felt fragile. I had just became a mother, and already I was being watched. He had a social worker. She was kind. At first I was nervous but now I realize she was only trying to help. But then? I was terrified. Terrified she’d see my anxiety, my unraveling edges, my mental health history- and decide I was unfit.

Every time I stepped into that sterile room, I felt like I was being tested. Like any moment of overhwelm might be used against me. Like i had to prove- while still bleeding, still healing, still terrfied- that i was capable of being the one he needed

The fear never fully left. Even now, I carry it like a ghost. I carry it into every appointment. I carry it when I change his clothes and see his tiny frame. I carry it when the numbers don’t go up and I brace for judgement

But Here is what I need to remind myself:

He is smart

He is joyful.

He is curious, playful, endlessly energetic.

He thrives in ways the doctors don’t always see.

I’m not feeding him air.

I’m feeding him safety.

Stability.

Presence.

Love in a thousand tiny acts that don’t show up in data.

I’m not neglectful.

I’m exhausted.

And I’m trying- with every cell in my body- not to let the shame eat me alive while I keep showing up for the child I’d do anything for.