My fourteen-year-old daughter was afraid to tell me what was happening at school for a long time. When she finally told the truth, I realized it was too late… 

My daughter is fourteen. For the past six months, I noticed she changed. She became quiet and withdrawn. She would come home from school, go straight to her room, and close the door. When asked how she was, her answers were short: “Fine,” “Everything’s okay,” “I’m tired.”

I attributed it to the teenage years. I thought it would pass. I told myself that teenagers are like this — they need personal space.

But then, other signs appeared. She stopped eating breakfast. She claimed she wasn’t hungry. I would check her lunchbox after school — untouched. She was visibly losing weight.

One day, I entered her room without knocking. She was sitting on the bed with her phone, the screen was open. She saw me and quickly turned off her phone, hiding it under the pillow. Her face turned red.

I asked if everything was okay. She nodded and turned towards the window. I didn’t push further. I decided to give her some time.

Another two weeks passed. Her teacher called me. She said my daughter had missed five physical education classes in a row. She brought in doctor’s notes, but the teacher was suspicious — the handwriting was different each time.

I went home and found my daughter in her room. I sat next to her on the bed. I said we needed to talk. Seriously.

She remained silent. She looked at the floor. I took her hand and asked directly, “What’s going on? Why aren’t you going to physical education?”

She stayed silent for another minute. Then she quietly said, “It’s the locker room.”

I didn’t understand. I asked what was wrong with the locker room. She looked up at me — red, teary eyes. And she began to tell me.

There’s a group of girls in her class. They’re popular, pretty, everyone idolizes them. During physical education, they change in the common locker room. Every time, they comment on each other’s bodies. Who has lost weight, who has stretch marks, who has cellulite.

Six months ago, they started talking about my daughter. They said she had thick thighs. That her stomach sticks out. That she should stop eating.

Initially, my daughter tried to ignore it. But they continued. They took photos of her in the locker room and discussed her in the class chat. They left comments on her social media photos: “Go to the gym,” “Stop eating.”

She stopped going to physical education. She faked notes, made up illnesses. She stopped eating. Every evening she would look at herself in the mirror and cry.

I listened and felt everything inside crumble. How could I not notice? How could I think it was just teenage whims?

I hugged her. She clung to me and sobbed uncontrollably. She said she was scared to tell. That she was ashamed. That she thought it would get worse if she spoke up.

The next day I went to the school. I talked to her class teacher, the principal. I showed screenshots from the chat, photos. I demanded action.

The principal listened. She said she would talk to the girls. Call their parents. But from her tone, I realized — nothing would change. To her, this was a normal situation. Kids have conflicts, nothing serious.

I returned home. My daughter was sitting in the kitchen, looking out the window. I sat across from her. I said we would get through this. That I was here. That she was beautiful, smart, worthy.

She looked at me and quietly asked, “Mom, why didn’t you ask sooner? Why did I have to tell you everything myself?”

I didn’t know what to say. Because she was right. I saw the signs. I saw how she was changing. But I didn’t ask. I thought it would pass on its own.

Three months have passed. My daughter is seeing a psychologist. Slowly returning to normal life. But I can see how she avoids mirrors. How she counts calories. How she tenses when she hears her phone notification.

I missed the moment. That very moment when I just needed to ask: “What happened? I see you’re not okay. Tell me.”

Now I live with this guilt. With the understanding that my “she’ll tell when she’s ready” turned into half a year of hell for my child.

Do you ask your children what’s going on with them, or do you also wait for them to come to you?

***

My fourteen-year-old daughter began losing weight before my eyes, stopped eating, and increasingly shut herself away in her room. I blamed it all on her teenage years. Until one morning her teacher called me and said that my daughter hadn’t been attending physical education classes for a long time. I sat beside her and quietly asked:
– What’s going on?
When she lowered her eyes and finally told the truth, I realized I was far too late…
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