I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that every woman – no, make that every girl – has been fat-shamed. What’s more, conversations about female weight are so endemic in our society that half the time we don’t even realise we’re having them.

How many times have you told someone they look great and immediately followed it with ‘have you lost weight’? Or feel secretly thrilled when it’s been said to you?

We regard the above as the ultimate Irish compliment, but in reality it’s perpetuating a toxic habit that’s existed for generations – the constant, reductive commentary that surrounds women and weight.

And the worst culprits? Why, us women of course.

As girls, we are conditioned in the art of comparison from a remarkably young age. I vividly remember being about eight or nine, feeling a sinking sensation in my stomach when in a paddling pool with my best friend. My legs were rounder, whiter, and I felt a prickling of envy.

No one had explicitly told me about a thigh gap. This was long before social media, so Skinny Tok can’t be blamed for my self-critical thinking. But my tween self had somehow absorbed the message that so many girls do – your body is not quite right. You are not perfect.

As a gangly 14-year-old, I was again reminded of that – this time a little differently, having sprouted several inches in the space of a year. Flat-chested and scrawny, I remember being mocked for being too thin.

You would think that with age comes acceptance, and for a time in my twenties and early thirties, I didn’t mumble too much about my body. Hormonal havoc had yet to kick in. Then along came babies, and my body shape became unrecognisable to me.

I put on three stone after having my two daughters, and I struggled massively with how I looked. I hated my reflection and my confidence was on the floor. I dressed to hide my domed post-partum stomach, which remained as inflated as it had been in the second trimester.

Then, at a media event – the first I had attended since my daughter Layla was born some months previously – a well-meaning acquaintance marvelled at how well I looked, considering I was pregnant with my third child.

I was not, but I didn’t tell her that. I nodded in abject horror and edged my way to the bathroom, tears stinging my eyes.

I could have explained that I wasn’t expecting, that severe diastasis recti had left my stomach protruding and that I was struggling desperately to lose the baby weight. The truth of it was, part of me even felt obliged to (how badly I wanted to be that mother whose body ‘snapped back’!)

I was too mortified to speak, but the next day, I took action – booking a tummy tuck a mere eight months after giving birth. I was due to go back to the office and there was no way I could risk being in that situation again.

Now, you would think such an experience would have taught me to be more mindful of not commenting on other women’s bodies. But years of conditioning are difficult to shake off.

A couple of years later, I became that well-meaning acquaintance when I congratulated a peer on their impending arrival. As she shook her head – no, not pregnant – I wanted to cry again.

There is no graceful way back from that moment and while I deserved to sit in the mortification of it all, she certainly didn’t.

That was almost a decade ago, and this week, I was reminded of just how little the conversation has changed.

Firstly, influencer and mum of five Rachel Gorry – who had twins nine months ago – posted about how she’s sick of being ‘fat-shamed’ online. Then presenter Katja Mia shared a ‘super transparent and honest’ update on her weight loss and decision to use GLP-1 medication.

What struck me most was not her decision itself, but her apparent need to justify it. She acknowledged that she didn’t owe anyone an explanation before proceeding to explain her hormonal challenges, health struggles and the efforts she had already made through diet and exercise, although prefacing it all with ‘Please be kind’ was telling in itself.

In many ways, it has never been harder not to comment on appearance.

The arrival of weight-loss drugs has created a whole new vocabulary of judgement. We speculate endlessly about who is taking what, who has lost weight naturally, who looks healthier, who looks gaunt.

We discuss shrinking waistlines one minute and ‘Ozempic face’ the next. And it’s women who are expected to provide a running commentary. If we gain weight, we’re asked why. If we lose it, we’re asked how. If our appearance changes, we’re expected to justify it.

It’s difficult to imagine men feeling the same obligation to publicly explain the same. It’s definitely a girl thing, and as we head into summer, no doubt the Irish compliments will be flying.

If they are not, we’ll be insulted. Let’s face it – we can’t win.