Trigger Warning: This post contains descriptions of eating disorder behaviors, trauma, and sexual assault. Please take care of yourself and skip this if it’s not safe for you right now.
I’m a week late, but here we are. Last week was National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and I’ve been sitting with whether or not to share this. But silence is the air eating disorders breathe, and I’ve lived with that silence — and the shame that comes with it — for far too fucking long.
This is my story — not just of an eating disorder, but of the lifelong, layered trauma that fueled it, and the ongoing, often chaotic, journey of unlearning, healing, and figuring out how to come home to myself.
I’m sharing it not because it’s easy, but because stories like mine are so much more common than most people realize. Eating disorders don’t have a single cause, and they sure as hell don’t only happen to thin, white teenage girls. They’re messy, complicated, and fueled by a tangled web of biology, trauma, mental health, and the toxic shit we all absorb from the world around us. They show up in every type of person — all ages, all genders, all body sizes, all races, all backgrounds.
And yet, so many of us feel like we’re the only one. That’s the lie silence tells us.
The Messages That Shaped Me
Before I ever skipped a meal or purged into a toilet, my eating disorder had already been years in the making — layered together like some fucked-up lasagna of trauma, body shame, and unspoken rules about who I was allowed to be.
I grew up in a world obsessed with weight, food, and bodies. The message was clear: being in a bigger body would make my life harder. Spoiler alert — they weren’t wrong. But instead of challenging that bullshit, the people around me doubled down on it. Fatphobia and body shame weren’t just things out there in the world — they lived in my house, at my dinner table, and in my own head.
I was also told, over and over again, that I was just too much.
Too loud. Too emotional. Too angry. Too impulsive. Too everything.
On top of that, I grew up watching unhealed generational trauma trickle down like poison — dripping into my siblings and me. I saw how women’s bodies were both objectified and policed. I learned that being a girl meant being inherently untrustworthy, manipulative, and responsible for everyone else’s behavior — including the bad shit that happened to us. Our bodies were problems. Our periods were punishments. Our desires were dirty.
I learned fast:
Be smaller.
Be quieter.
Be obedient.
The Spark
By the time I was 13, I already hated myself and didn’t know what the fuck love or safety even felt like.
Then, in 9th grade, a friend casually dropped this gem:
“Guess who Randy said would be hot if they lost weight? YOU! Can you believe it?”
I still don’t know if her disbelief was about him saying it — or the sheer impossibility of me being hot — but either way, something snapped. That comment was the match that lit the whole damn fire.
That day, I decided not to eat for three days. We didn’t have a scale at home, but my pants got looser and people noticed. That attention was like a drug, and I wanted more.
Ironically, it was a school health program — the one meant to teach us how not to develop eating disorders — that handed me my first rulebook. I learned how to hide it. How to restrict, binge, purge, and over-exercise. Bulimia became my reset button, my secret weapon to erase all the bad feelings. Every pound lost felt like a win. Every compliment felt like validation.
It was easy to hide. Dad worked nights. Mom worked late or traveled. No one questioned me when I said I didn’t feel well or “just wasn’t hungry.”
Then, the summer I turned 15, I was raped. That trauma layered itself right on top of everything else. I believed I had to be thinner to be worthy of love, but I also wanted to disappear completely — to make myself so small no one could see me, touch me, or hurt me again.
By junior year, I wasn’t hiding my behaviors well anymore. My dad caught me purging and dragged me to a mirror.
“Look at yourself. You look sick,” he said.
I snapped back, “First I was too fat, now I’m too thin. I don’t know what you want from me!”
Whatever conversations happened behind closed doors, I never knew. No doctor. No therapist. No help.
The Evolution of My Disorder
Eating disorders are shapeshifters. Mine morphed from anorexia and bulimia into binge eating disorder (BED). Restrict, binge, repeat. My body changed, but my disorder didn’t go anywhere.
The triggers never left. Compliments about my body — especially from men — still send me spiraling.
After multiple rapes and assaults, my brain learned to see my body as both a target and a threat. It’s no wonder I kept trying to control it, shrink it, erase it.
I normalized eating once a day. Extreme cleanses. Punishing workouts. All of it was just… life.
And then, a month after my first wedding, my then-husband told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore — because of my weight. Our 8.5-year relationship had been toxic and chaotic, mirroring the shit we both grew up with. I honestly don’t remember if the suicidal thoughts came first or if seeking treatment did, but at 28, I reached out for professional help for the first time.
Healing Isn’t Linear
If you’re waiting for a neat and tidy recovery story, I’m not your girl. Healing is a fucking mess.
It’s two steps forward, three to the side, throw in a cartwheel, a faceplant, and then get up and try again — blindfolded.
Some days, I felt brave and unstoppable. Other days, I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
Now, in my second marriage, with two stints in eating disorder treatment, an incredible therapist, and a whole new collection of triggers and traumas, I’ve learned some shit:
- Because my disorder went untreated for so long, it may always be with me in some form.
- Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line — it’s a spiral, a dance, a goddamn scavenger hunt.
- It’s going to take as long as it takes.
- It’s hard. It’s worth it. Both are true.
After years of learning to forgive myself, reconnect with my body, and accept all the messy, beautiful parts of me — I’ve realized real safety and worth come from the inside out.
I used to believe recovery meant being “healed” — like one day I’d never think about food, my body, or my worth again. That’s bullshit. Recovery is messier than that. Some days it’s a quiet win. Some days it’s just surviving. But every day I choose to stay, to feel, to keep going — that’s a day my disorder doesn’t win. And that’s enough.
If You Love Someone with an Eating Disorder
Want to help? Here’s where to start:
✅ Encourage them to get professional help — the sooner the better.
✅ Educate yourself — eating disorders are way more than food.
✅ Show up with compassion, not judgment.
✅ Be a safe space. No body talk. No diet talk.
❌ Don’t pretend it’ll just go away.
❌ Don’t push food, diets, or workouts.
❌ Don’t comment on their body — ever.
❌ Don’t bash your own body either.
❌ Don’t talk about your fucking diet.
Eating disorders aren’t choices — they’re illnesses. But with support, recovery is possible.
If Any of This Feels Familiar — Here’s Where to Start
If any part of my story feels like yours — please know you are not alone. You didn’t cause this, and you don’t deserve to suffer in silence. There are people who get it, who want to help, and who know how to support you in untangling this mess.
Here are a few places you can reach out:
🖥️ National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA)
https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org
Call or text: (800) 931-2237 (check the site for current hours)
📱 Crisis Text Line
Text HOME to 741741 to connect with a trained Crisis Counselor 24/7.
📞 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (for crisis situations)
Call or text: 988
🖥️ Project HEAL (help accessing treatment if finances are a barrier)
https://www.theprojectheal.org
🖥️ The Trevor Project (support for LGBTQIA+ folks in crisis)
https://www.thetrevorproject.org
Call: 1-866-488-7386
Or text START to 678-678
💜 Therapy Directories (to find a therapist who specializes in eating disorders)
You are not broken. You are not too much. You are not unworthy of love, help, or healing — no matter how long you’ve carried this. You deserve support, safety, and compassion. Please, reach out.
You are worth saving.
Even on the days you don’t believe it.
Especially on those days.
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