As a child, I hated my body. Seeing my daughter love her body has been a healing experience.

“Mommy, do I need to get a Happy Meal?”

I was so stunned by my 9-year-old daughter Mila’s request that I almost drove into the car as she placed her order in front of us. I’d wanted Mila to give up McDonald’s for years and blamed myself for allowing it more than occasionally and foregoing nutrients for convenience.

“There’s not enough food. Can I have 10 nuggets and fries please?” she asked sweetly.

“But what about the toys? I think this is a good one this month!” I said, surprising myself by encouraging mess.

“Ugh, it’s okay, they’re kind of childish,” she said, chewing gum. And judging by my quick glance in the rearview mirror, she rolled her eyes too.

I felt the tears welling up as I placed her order, sans Happy Meal. Of course, those tears had nothing to do with chicken nuggets. I just wasn’t ready for my daughter to be the one to initiate this transition, this rite of passage, this step toward, sigh, puberty.

In my back seat, without a booster seat or car seat, sat my only child, no longer a baby but a full-fledged teenage child whose hormones were about to go haywire. We had taken a few more small steps away from childhood, like going to Claire’s and Sephora instead of the toy store, skipping birthday parties and play dates, showering without help, and even asking for a bra.

I didn’t ask my mother for a bra. When I was just 12, she sternly told me a bra had become “necessary” (thanks, stubborn metabolism). When puberty hit, the weights went up and my breasts grew. I was grumpy, moody and embarrassed in the department store dressing room when the sales assistant put a tape measure around my chest and brought me a barrage of age-appropriate styles to try on.

It wasn’t “necessary” for Mila to wear a bra, but she spotted one in her size while shopping. The soft cotton training bra didn’t have much support, but she swore it would make her feel more comfortable. Rather than curb her curiosity, we took the bra home and the next morning, without another word, it was tucked under her shirt.

When I wore my first bra in public, I was embarrassed and convinced everyone was staring at the straps showing through my shirt. For weeks, I walked around with my arms crossed over my chest. But my daughter’s silence was not a sign of embarrassment. Quite the opposite – she was so comfortable and confident in her changing body. There was nothing to discuss; she didn’t need reassurance. Mila was proud to wear a bra and looked forward to all the rites of passage that come with puberty, which are so different from how I felt about my body at her age.

I am impressed that my daughter is proud of her body and enjoys it with such ease. Seeing her navigate the onset of puberty so gracefully has a surprising benefit: it helps Me as I enter perimenopause. I naturally tend to panic about having spots on my face for the first time in 30 years, my mood swings, my breasts changing, and my hormones being out of whack. Instead, my daughter unexpectedly reminded me that change is good—even healing—and that I should embrace this wave of physical and emotional change.

And unlike me at her age, she doesn’t see food as taboo, which sometimes makes it counterintuitive for me to follow her example, knowing how uncomfortable, embarrassed and confused I felt as a girl. I have to remind myself that Mila’s relationship with food is healthy. She eats nuggets and anything else that sounds good without feeling guilty or ashamed.

By the age of 9, I was already on a diet and was afraid to eat anything that was not labeled as “light” or “diet.” My stubborn baby fat would not go away, and with the onset of puberty, it felt like even a Demand would make me gain weight. My childhood pantry was stocked with ’80s classics like Crystal Light, bland microwave popcorn, and rice cakes, which only fueled my cravings for decadent foods. As I entered my teens, babysitting jobs presented opportunities to raid pantries overflowing with cookies, chips, and non-diet soda.

When I found out I was having a daughter, I was thrilled, but even before she was born, I was worried about what puberty would bring. I struggled with my weight, body image, social anxiety, and imposter syndrome from the onset of puberty to, well, now—as a grown woman heading into menopause. I see so much of myself in my daughter. She loves music, pop culture, reading, and writing. She’s quirky, fiercely loyal to her friends, sensitive, curious, and creative. But when it comes to body acceptance, we’re polar opposites. I got my first period at 12 and cried for days, feeling like a human science experiment. No one was allowed to know. I lied to my friends for months and carefully hid pads at the bottom of my locker. After my daughter discovered her period, she was curious and—dare I say it—excited. One time, we were standing in a long line at Target and Mila decided this was the perfect moment to loudly ask, “Mommy? How old were you when you got your first period?”

I mumbled that I got my first period in seventh grade, then whispered that we could talk more about it at home. “Why not now?” she pleaded.

How could I explain that at nine, she was light years better at talking about and anticipating these changes than I was at twelve (and let’s be honest, at 46)? When Mila came home from school and told her that some boys had told her they reminded her of a “fat” TV character, I was triggered. In sixth grade, my friends and I would pretend to be our favorite celebrities, and I desperately wanted to be “Alyssa Milano.” Unfortunately, I was told to be “Roseanne Barr” because it was “more believable.” I missed three days of school, blocking out the pain with handfuls of snacks and dessert. My daughter just brushed it off. “It hurts, but I know I’m not fat,” she said.

It’s funny how I’ve worried about how to get my daughter through puberty and teach her to be comfortable with food, love her body and find inner peace – yet she is the one who gives me advice, comfort and perspective. Her acceptance of her own body helps me cope with the changes in my body during perimenopause.

But that doesn’t mean my job as a mom to a prepubescent teen is over. I’ve helped Mila navigate friendship drama, disappointments, and her penchant for sassy remarks, usually directed at me. And despite her maturing puberty and changing body, she still walks the fine line between childhood and adolescence. Instinctively, she pushes me away, but then begs me to stay. She still can’t fall asleep without my husband or me reading her a story and singing the medley of songs we put together for her as a baby. She wants to watch “Bluey” but is a big fan of reruns of “Friends.” She’s a Swiftie, but Barbie is still the best. And when I slip up and order her a Happy Meal, she eats it without complaining, knowing it’s what my own raging hormones need to see.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com.