Last weekend my dad and I got into a conversation about bodies. While cleaning up the kitchen, we started talking about weight and body image, and for the first time possibly ever, I came out of that conversation feeling OK. No tears, no rushing to a mirror, no internal promises to start a diet tomorrow.

This would not have been the case last year.

My father and I have always fought about what bodies he accepts as “healthy” or attractive. I am very close with my dad, so these conversations usually leave me feeling all kinds of angry, but also guilty. In spite of my best attempts to come at them with empathy, I tend to jump in with my fists raised, ...