I grew up with an 'almond mom.' I finally talked to my mom about how her eating behaviors with affected mine.

• My mother is an "almond mom," meaning she has restrictive health and eating habits.
• I've been in recovery from a eating disorder for four years.

I was raised by an almond mom who was raised by an almond mom who was also probably raised by an almond mom.

There's no one reason a person develops an eating disorder, but medical professionals believe disordered eating can be linked to genetics and outside influences — and mothers typically play a major role in how their kids perceive their bodies.

My almond mom — or, a parent with restrictive eating habits, who is stuck in diet culture — and her mom were no different. They'd pinch their sides, measure their food, and point out when their children gained weight.

I don't think they meant any harm. I think they were following what they'd been taught.

But, as the pattern goes, I turned into an almond daughter. I developed an eating disorder — a pretty nasty one at that — and as the pounds came off, my mother praised me.

"You look really good, Ami," my mom would say. She didn't know the lengths I was going to lose weight, but her appreciation of the results was enough to keep me in a spiral for seven years, between the ages of 15 and 22.

Now, at 26, after four years of an incredibly difficult recovery, I've come to terms with my body and my eating disorder. But I realized that when I spend time with my mom, I revert to my old thought patterns. It wasn't enough for me to get better; I wanted to help my mom get better, too.

I first talked to my mom about my eating disorder last year

On a trip home last year, I sat my mom down and told her everything. From the late nights crying in my shower to the days spent eating as little as possible, I was completely open with her.

I thought letting her know what I'd been struggling with would put some of her actions into context and highlight how they'd affected me. I explained how difficult it is when she eats two bites and then claims to be full as she watches me finish a full plate of food. While I know she probably isn't thinking about me in those moments, I can't shake the idea that I'm being judged.

I knew it wasn't her intention to pass down the demons she's struggled with her whole life, so I explained to her that it's really important that mealtimes are a safe place where we can both eat and feel comfortable.

She started to cry.

She told me how sorry she was and that she was proud of me. But even after our conversation, her behavior continued. I shouldn't have been shocked, but I was.

I thought that by having this conversation, she'd change immediately because she's my mother and would want the best for me and for herself. Unfortunately, it's much more complicated than that. I didn't understand then that that voice in my mom's head telling her she wasn't worthy wouldn't be silenced so easily.

I was nervous when she decided to stay with me this summer

I was apprehensive when my mother decided to stay with me for three weeks this summer. I wasn't sure I could watch her eat a handful of almonds as a meal or listen to her frequent comments about how I can eat more because I'm "bigger" than her. I decided that if we were going to cohabitate, I needed to have another hard conversation with her.

When she placed a tiny portion of food on her plate, I said: "Mom, please have a bit more."

As she took a tiny bite, I gently pointed out how her behavior was affecting me, and while I didn't think it was her fault, I wanted her to get better. "I know that you struggle with your body and with eating, and I know age hasn't made this any easier for you, but I need you to try," I said.

She seemed slightly defensive at first. Then she said, "I don't know how."

She told me she was doing things the only way she'd ever known; she hadn't been taught how to nourish herself.

I realized this would be an ongoing conversation

That's when I realized this conversation wouldn't have a specific start and end; it would likely take years and lots of patience. How could she get better when she had no idea what that looked like or how to go about it? She hadn't been raised with the same conversations we're having now about body acceptance and positivity or mental-health awareness; she had never absorbed the message that your worth isn't externally defined.

To help my mom, I had to be strong enough to have this conversation with her over and over again — which would also help me heal.

For three weeks, we continued these conversations. Nearly every day, something would happen to push us both to be better. We'd get a pastry most mornings, taking a moment to savor the buttery treat before starting a winding walk through the city. We'd have our most vulnerable conversations on our walks. One morning, we talked about my grandmother.

"You don't remember her much, do you?" my mom asked.

"I remember a lot about Nana, especially her love of coffee," I said.

"What you probably don't remember was her constant nit-picking," my mom said. "From when your aunt and I were just little girls, she'd always fuss over us, commenting on our hair, clothes, or even bodies. It was a completely different time then. She was under a lot of pressure, and she put us under a lot of pressure. I can't say that what she did was wrong, but it did hurt never feeling quite good enough."

"I feel like that's something a lot of people go through, especially with parents, and that's part of the reason I want to push us to be better," I said.

My mom looked at me with tears in her eyes and I could tell she was beginning to realize the extent of her own demons, the self-talk that makes her feel not good enough and where it comes from.

By the end of her three-week stay, my mother was starting to eat more. It felt encouraging for both of us; even though we're bound to hit a few bumps in the road, it's OK, because we're finally building a foundation that allows us to have difficult conversations with each other. The journey to healing isn't linear, and even though she's my mom, I've had to change my perspective completely on what being a "good mom" means.

Before my mother left, she said, "I'm so grateful that you're having these conversations with me because this isn't something we were ever able to talk about growing up." At that moment, I realized our relationship had flipped; instead of my mother guiding me and helping me grow, it was my turn to be there for her. And I'm proud of her.