ED & RECOVERY POSTS

I wanted to consolidate all of my recovery posts in one place to make the journey more cohesive and easier to follow. Each of these reflections represents a different part of my experience, from confronting deeply ingrained beliefs to navigating the challenging, often invisible phases of healing. My hope is that by sharing this collection, it can provide clarity, insight, and support to others who might be walking a similar path. Recovery is not linear, and these posts reflect the real, raw, and sometimes messy work that goes into reclaiming a life defined by self-compassion and strength.

My Recovery Journey: A New Chapter

As I sit here on the 6th of March, 2024, I realize I’m embarking on an important milestone in my eating disorder recovery. It’s been about 18 months since I first started working on healing, but today marks the day when I commit fully to the process.

At my lowest point, I weigh 51.8 kg at 5 ft 9 in, and my menstrual cycle has became irregular, occurring only once every two months. I’ve been living with Anorexia Nervosa since I was 14, though signs of disordered eating surfaced even earlier, when I wouldn’t eat my lunch at school.

The passing of my dad when I was 14 sent me into a state of numbness, and the disorder took hold more strongly after that. I remember a moment three days after his death, collapsed on the kitchen floor, lightheaded and unable to breathe after attempting to make a cheesecake. I hadn’t eaten anything, yet the thought of consuming a banana felt like “too much.”

My eating disorder robbed me of much – I had to drop out of high school, my depression kept me bedridden, and I alienated the people who cared for me. Most painfully, my mum feared for my life during my darkest days. Understanding the impact on my loved ones has pushed me to do something about it.

Today, I'm more committed than ever to my recovery. I want my life back – the life where food brought me joy, not fear. I want to reclaim the carefree relationship with food I had as a child. Recovery isn’t linear, but I’m determined to document my journey with honesty and vulnerability. I’ll be sharing the ups, the downs, and everything in between, with the hope that others who are struggling can find some comfort in knowing they aren’t alone.

Part of this recovery involves letting go of restrictive food labels and diets. This is not a “health food” blog. Instead, this space will be a reflection of what truly nourishes me, what makes me happy, and what feels freeing. I’ll share recipes that excite me, without the pressure of perfection or the expectation of “health.”

A recent step in my recovery was taking progress photos. This was both daunting and liberating. I stood before the mirror, anticipating self-criticism, but instead found a moment of introspection. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t judge myself harshly. It wasn’t about how my body looked, but how I felt when I looked at it. There were even moments where I didn’t mind what I saw.

In the past, I avoided cameras, robbing myself of memories. No childhood photos, no snapshots to look back on. Although there’s a twinge of regret, I’ve shifted my focus to the present. It’s in the small steps forward, like incorporating morning stretches into my routine or practicing positive self-talk, that I see progress.

This recovery is not about achieving a certain look or following a prescribed routine. It’s about learning to embrace myself, body and mind, with compassion and patience. Each day is a new opportunity to grow, and I want to share this with you all. As I move forward, I’m excited to also share my other passions – cooking, baking, and gardening – things that bring joy and nourishment into my life beyond the plate.

Embracing the Journey of Recovery and Reparenting 

As I reflect on my path towards recovery, I realize that it’s not just about healing from an eating disorder. It’s about untangling the complex web of trauma that has shaped so much of who I am. Like many, I didn’t have an ideal childhood. Growing up in a home where my father didn’t confront his own demons, paired with the painful disintegration of my parents' relationship, left me with wounds that cut deep.

When my dad passed away suddenly when I was 14, I found myself slipping into a seven-year-long depressive fog. I’ve spent years living with these painful memories, but now, as I emerge from that haze, I’m facing them head-on with a mixture of fear and determination.

A recent epiphany has brought me to a powerful realization: much of what I’ve believed to be my personality is, in fact, a trauma response. It's a coping mechanism, a shield I created to protect myself and keep others at a distance. By locking away parts of myself I feared would be too disruptive or attention-grabbing, I constructed a version of myself that was easy to digest, one that made me feel needed and important but also kept me small.

Now, I’ve made a bold decision: I’m going to reparent myself. It's a daunting task, full of uncertainties and fears, but also strangely calming. The process feels overwhelming at times, but it also gives me a sense of clarity and purpose. By confronting these wounds and giving my inner child the love, care, and attention she missed out on, I can start moving toward the life I deserve—a life full of healing and wholeness.

A key part of this reparenting journey involves introspection and self-discovery. Recently, I worked through a thought-provoking prompt: "What emotion do I try to avoid? What makes me afraid to feel it? What am I afraid will happen if I feel it?"

I approached the question with calm at first, but as I delved deeper, I felt something within me snap. I unleashed a flood of pent-up anger, aimed squarely at my father. It was as though he were standing right in front of me, and I finally allowed myself to rail against the injustice of it all. I am the one left to pick up the pieces, forced to face emotions that I should never have had to bear.

In the midst of this emotional outpouring, something unexpected happened: the floodgates opened, and I found myself in tears. Though it was brief, that release felt profound. For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to feel the emotions I had spent years pushing down—emotions I had been taught to believe were "negative" or "wrong."

It’s only the beginning of this journey, and I know there’s much more to uncover. But I’m committed to it. I don’t want to remain stagnant or numb any longer. I deserve the future I imagine for myself—a future where I am whole, where I embrace all parts of who I am, and where I continue healing from both the eating disorder and the trauma that has been with me for so long.

As I move forward, I’m not just recovering from an eating disorder; I’m healing from the inside out. This process, though challenging, is making space for all of me. It’s teaching me that I am worthy of love, care, and the future I’ve always dreamed of, one that’s filled with peace and self-acceptance.

Unlearning the Pain: Reclaiming My Relationship with Food and My Body

As I continue my recovery from an eating disorder, I find myself diving deeper into the origins of my struggles—an exploration that has been as challenging as it is eye-opening. Childhood memories, which I once shut away, are slowly resurfacing, shedding light on the long-standing beliefs that shaped my relationship with food and body image.

One moment, in particular, stands out. Around the age of 11, during the delicate pre-pubescent years, the taunts of my brother and the criticisms of my father began to leave permanent scars. My brother would mock me about the fat over my shoulder blade, calling it my "back boob," and his remarks about my stomach would echo in my mind every time I sat down. Meanwhile, my father, who was deeply uncomfortable with my changing body, would tell me to "put the food back" whenever he saw me eating. Those words, seemingly innocuous at the time, made me feel like my body was unacceptable and unworthy.

I now understand that my dad's behaviour was rooted in his own insecurities, that he didn’t want a "fat" daughter, and my growing body made him uncomfortable. At the time, I didn't realize how damaging those comments were; I simply started adjusting my behaviour, trying to make others feel more comfortable and happy. I never questioned myself before those comments were made. I had aspirations like improving my grades or swimming skills, but I never thought twice about my physical appearance. It wasn't until those remarks were made that I began to internalize criticism of my body.

As I entered my teens and experienced a rapid growth spurt, my body transformed almost overnight. At 5'9", I became the subject of my father's scrutiny once again. His comments shifted from worrying about how much I was eating to questioning why I wasn’t eating enough. I had gone from being told I ate too much to being asked why my lunches were coming back untouched. But by that point, the damage was done. My self-esteem had already been battered, and my relationship with food had been altered forever. At my lowest, I was eating half a muesli bar a day, clinging to the belief that this was the only way to feel in control.

In contrast to the negativity at my dad’s, my mum emerged as a pillar of support, love, and acceptance. At the time, I failed to fully recognize the depth of her care, often denying her positive comments about my body. But now, looking back, I’m incredibly grateful for her unwavering love. Unlike my dad, she never made remarks about my physical appearance. Instead, she encouraged me to embrace my body and appreciate its uniqueness. Her acceptance, especially regarding my stretch marks, provided a powerful contrast to the criticism I received.

This process of reconnecting with my past has been revealing. I’ve come to realize that my relationship with food and body image isn't a fundamental part of who I am—it’s a learned behaviour, shaped by external voices. And the good news? I have the power to unlearn it. Recognizing this has been a crucial turning point in my recovery, a step toward reclaiming my true self and developing a healthier mindset around food and my body.

A recent revelation has further shifted my perspective. I recognized that I’ve often used my eating disorder as a form of punishment—a misguided attempt to conform to an unattainable ideal. The moment of clarity came when someone asked me how I show love to others. Without hesitation, I said, "I bake and cook for people, I love feeding them." But when asked how I punish myself, my immediate response was, "I don’t eat." That realization was a turning point in understanding the deeper motivations behind my behaviour. I was punishing myself by refusing nourishment, believing that deprivation was the only way to feel in control.

As I continue on this path of self-discovery and healing, I am committed to dismantling these harmful beliefs and behaviours. Each step forward brings me closer to reclaiming my autonomy, fostering a more compassionate relationship with food, and embracing my body as it is.

To anyone reading who may be on their own recovery journey, I want you to know that your voice matters. If you feel ready, share your story with me. Your experience could inspire and help others along their path to healing.

One Meal, One Step: Celebrating the Small Victories in Recovery 

In the last four hours, I've found myself in the midst of a familiar struggle, where every thought feels like a dagger, and my mind is consumed by doubt. I've been eating the same meal for all this time: 2/3 cup of rolled oats, 1 cup of milk, a sprinkle of sugar, and a handful of dried fruit. Four hours to finish one meal—four hours of anxiety, self-criticism, and restless thoughts simmering just below the surface.

Lately, I've been feeling off—restless and anxious without a clear reason. Maybe it's just a bump in the road of recovery, a momentary shift. But even in the midst of this discomfort, I'm holding onto hope. I have to. To recover, I need to focus on the positive, to shift my mindset and not let the negative thoughts take over. It's a challenge, but I know it's necessary to push forward.

In the past, I would have succumbed to defeat after just two hours. I would have hidden the meal in the fridge, forgotten about it until the next day, and turned to snacking or something simple like toast with Vegemite or jam, nibbling at it slowly for hours. But today, today is different. I'm choosing to see this struggle as a victory in disguise. Yes, old ED behaviours are resurfacing, taunting me with their familiar grip. But despite the battle, I persevered. I finished the bowl—four hours later, but I finished it.

Now, as I face dinner, feeling heavy and not hungry at all, I’m still going to prepare something. It might be simple, and it might take me a few hours to eat, but I will try. Every meal is a victory, a small step forward on the path to recovery. And as long as I keep moving forward, no setback, no matter how daunting, can stop me. Because I am not giving in. I have a future that doesn’t involve this draining disorder, and I am going to get there.

Each day brings its own challenges, but each day is also an opportunity to prove to myself that I am stronger than my eating disorder. One meal at a time, one thought at a time, I am moving closer to the life I deserve.

A Progress Update: Small Wins, Big Changes

I wanted to take a moment to update you all on my recovery. It’s been a few months since my last post, and I’m excited to share some positive changes that have been happening.

First, I'm thrilled to report that as of october 8th, my weight has increased to 55.7 kg, up from 51.8 kg in March of this year. While numbers on the scale have always held a lot of significance for me, this change is so much more than just a figure. It's a sign of the hard work, dedication, and the emotional and physical healing I've been going through. Along with the weight gain, I’m noticing that my brain fog is lifting, and my energy levels are gradually improving. I still don’t feel my best, but I can feel the progress—and it’s something I’m deeply grateful for.

Another important milestone: my menstrual cycle. It’s become much more consistent now, ranging between 22-26 days, compared to the 32-40 days it used to be (sometimes even skipping for nearly two months). And for the first time in ages, my flow has returned to what it used to be. Although it’s a bit uncomfortable right now, especially given the cramps, I am incredibly thankful for these signs that my body is healing. Previously, my period was not only irregular but also light, with no cramps or clots, which was worrisome. So, even though this phase isn't the easiest, it's reassuring to know that my body is finding its balance again.

In terms of mental health, I’ve been using a cognitive behaviour therapy (CBT) tool that’s been incredibly helpful. After writing my first post about my recovery in March, I started wearing a rubber band around my left wrist. Whenever I’d feel overwhelmed by thoughts of food or begin spiraling during meals, I’d snap the band. This small act of grounding myself helped tremendously, and for a couple of months, I wore it daily. While I don’t wear it as often now, I still find comfort in using it during moments when the inner dialogue becomes overwhelming.

Another exciting development: I've been sharing more recipes lately! Cooking and baking have become such joyful outlets for me, and I’m planning to share some savory dishes soon. Of course, you can expect a few more sweet treats in the meantime, as they continue to bring me comfort and creativity in the kitchen. I’m also hoping to plant something in our garden by the end of the year—something I can use in my cooking and baking. Fingers crossed that it’ll grow well!

A Recovery Update: Navigating Setbacks and Creativity

I wanted to share some thoughts on how I’ve been feeling lately, especially in terms of my recovery and the ongoing process of recipe development. Right now, I’m fighting off a cold, which has left me feeling drained and has definitely affected my appetite. Over the last few days, I haven’t been eating much, and it’s been a real challenge.

In the past, during the depths of my eating disorder, I wouldn’t have thought twice about how little I was eating—or rather, how little I allowed myself to eat. But now, in recovery, it’s almost the opposite. I find myself overthinking everything, constantly aware of the food I’m not consuming. I know that for my body to heal and gain weight, I need to be eating more, but being sick has made it incredibly difficult. At the same time, I can’t help but recognize that if I had this cold during my eating disorder, I likely wouldn’t have eaten even a quarter of what I’ve managed to eat these past few days. Progress, right?

This all reminded me of something my mum has said since I was young: "Over-analysis causes paralysis." It's so easy to get caught up in overthinking, especially during moments like these. I’m trying to remember that I’m doing well, even in these small, challenging moments. Not everything has to be perfect, and that’s okay.

On the creative side, I’ve been working on developing some new recipes. I’ve been bouncing back and forth between two ideas: an almond tart and a sesame tart. Both have elements I want to tweak, and I thought I was close to having the sesame tart recipe ready to share today. But, alas, it’s just not quite there yet.

I’ll admit, I’m feeling a bit annoyed and disappointed that I don’t have a new recipe to share this time. Even though I haven’t explicitly committed to posting a new recipe each week, I’ve fallen into a rhythm where it feels like I have. And now, without a new recipe to post, it feels like I’ve failed. I found myself questioning, "If I could do it before, why can’t I now? Were all my previous recipes just flukes? What if I can’t bring the idea in my head to life?"

It’s been a jumble of thoughts, but I’ve reminded myself that setbacks happen. It’s part of the process. I can always try again. I can make adjustments, do more research, and give it another go. I know that not feeling well has probably made these thoughts more overwhelming, but I’m learning to be patient with myself and give myself grace.

So, while I don’t have a new recipe to share today, I’ll continue working on it and make the necessary adjustments when I’m feeling a bit better. Recovery—and creativity—are both journeys filled with ups and downs, and I’m doing my best to navigate them with more compassion for myself.

The Journey to Understanding and Letting Go

Realizing that your parents are just human is one of the most difficult and painful processes you can go through. The moment when the invincible, bulletproof figures you once looked up to are revealed as just as scared, hurt, and flawed as everyone else can be a shocking truth. They feel fear just like you, they cry when it hurts, and they laugh with joy. But perhaps the hardest part of this realization is coming to terms with how their actions caused you pain—how they made you feel small, unlovable, and burdened by the parts of themselves they saw in you. Parts they were taught to believe were too much, too wrong, or too unworthy of love.

This understanding can feel like retraumatization, forcing you to relive old wounds and confront the harsh truth that the people you needed to be your safe haven were just as lost and wounded as you were. It creates a cycle that perpetuates until one day, you see it clearly: they’re human too. And with that realization comes the monumental task of finding a way to forgive them—not for their sake, but for your own. Forgiving them is a way to reclaim the freedom and peace that their actions once stole from you.

As you start to understand their childhoods, you begin to see the deep pain they endured. Maybe they hid under the kitchen table in the dark, pulling the chairs close to them as a makeshift fortress. And you remember a time when you did the same, in your own way, to shield yourself. You start to understand that their self-centered actions that hurt you were shaped by their own triggers—like when they were 16 and humiliated by a teacher because their parents were immigrants. Or how the gambling and cheating you once saw as deliberate betrayals were actually desperate attempts to fill a void they never learned how to confront.

As these realizations sink in, you can’t help but feel how unfair it is that, once again, you’re the one who has to process the pain. You’re the one who has to forgive without forgetting, the one who must break the cycle so it doesn’t pass down to the next generation. The anger and bitterness you’ve carried for so long begin to surface, and you see their behaviours reflected in your own reactions. The child inside you, who just wanted to be loved and to make someone proud, is still there, fighting through the darkness. Meanwhile, the older, more guarded part of you fights to protect that child from ever feeling that pain again. But the tension between these two parts of you is exhausting, and you reach a point where you’re simply tired—tired of blaming, tired of the anger, tired of carrying the weight of their mistakes.

So, you begin the slow, draining task of unraveling the knot of emotions that have held you captive for so long. You sit with your pain instead of running from it. You work through your feelings, and you start to see the parts of them in you without getting defensive. You let yourself feel—really feel—and, in doing so, you find the parts of yourself that have always been enough. You begin to understand that your parents were doing the best they could with the cards they were dealt. But this understanding doesn’t mean you accept their actions or excuse their behaviour. It simply means that you find a place of imperfect contentment—a place where you can finally be free from the weight of their mistakes and your own need to make sense of it all.

And with that, you choose to step over it.

The Quiet Monotony of Recovery

Recovery from an eating disorder is often portrayed as a journey from rock bottom to complete healing—the struggle at the depths and the ultimate joy of finding peace. But there’s a stage that doesn’t get talked about enough: the quiet monotony of the in-between. It’s that strange, unsettling place where you’re not in crisis anymore, but you’re not yet free. You sit in a kind of emotional limbo—no longer governed by old, harmful behaviours, but not yet fully embracing a new, healthy mindset. It’s a quiet equilibrium that can be as exhausting and disorienting as the disorder itself.

This stage is hard to define. You’re no longer engaging in the most destructive behaviours, but you haven’t found peace with food, your body, or yourself. It feels like you’re stuck in a holding pattern—neither moving backward nor fully moving forward. You’re doing the work, showing up every day, but instead of feeling accomplished, you’re met with a sense of sameness that can put you on edge.

This equilibrium is often marked by a kind of numbness. You’re not necessarily depressed, but you’re not exactly happy either. It’s a steady, quiet state that lacks the highs and lows you may have come to know so well, leaving you in a kind of emotional stasis. And this monotony? It can drive anyone to distraction.

The truth is, this stage of recovery is incredibly difficult because it’s when the real, often unseen work happens. You’re actively breaking years of ingrained habits, reframing your relationship with food and your body, and working toward a healthier, more balanced life. But this process isn’t always rewarding. It’s slow, sometimes painfully so, and progress can feel imperceptible. Every day might feel the same, and that sameness can feel unsettling.

Recovery is about creating a “new normal,” and that’s not something that happens overnight. You’re unlearning coping mechanisms that, while unhealthy, were familiar and comforting. It’s like being stuck between two versions of yourself: the one you’re leaving behind and the one you’re trying to become. In that space, it’s easy to feel lost, unmotivated, or unsure of what comes next.

Living in this equilibrium isn’t just about battling old habits. It’s about sitting with uncomfortable emotions that once were numbed or managed by disordered behaviours. There’s an emotional toll to this stage, a quiet fatigue that comes from facing the same struggles day after day without clear markers of progress. The urge to distract yourself or fall back into familiar patterns can be strong, because at least those patterns, however destructive, felt like something.

But this stage is crucial. It’s where you learn to sit with discomfort without immediately trying to change it. It’s where you build resilience and learn to trust the process—even when it feels like you’re treading water. This is the hidden, vital work of recovery that isn’t glamorous or easy to share.

The monotony of this stage can be maddening, but it’s also a sign that you’re on the right path. You’re building new habits, rewiring old thought patterns, and learning to exist in a body and mind that are healing. This equilibrium, though uncomfortable, is a testament to your strength. It’s okay not to feel fully happy here, but know that every day spent in this in-between space is a step toward a future where you can find peace with yourself.

The in-between is not forever. It’s a necessary stage in your journey toward healing. So hold on, even when it feels like nothing is changing. Change is happening quietly beneath the surface. And one day, this equilibrium will give way to something new.

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Some Strategies for Navigating the In-Between:

• Acknowledge the Equilibrium: Simply recognizing this stage as part of your recovery can be a relief. You’re not alone in feeling this way, and there’s no shame in the discomfort of this middle ground.

• Seek Small Moments of Joy: Even amidst the monotony, look for little things that bring you peace—whether it’s a walk in nature, reading a book, or engaging in a creative outlet. These moments won’t erase the discomfort, but they can provide some respite.

• Celebrate Micro-Wins: Recovery isn’t just about big milestones. Celebrate small victories—the days when you eat intuitively, when you speak kindly to yourself, or when you simply show up. These micro-wins are the foundation for lasting change.

• Stay Connected: Talk to others who understand this stage—whether it’s a therapist, a support group, or friends who’ve been through similar experiences. Sometimes just knowing you’re not the only one in this limbo can be comforting.

• Practice Self-Compassion: It’s easy to be hard on yourself during this stage. Be gentle with yourself. You’re doing something incredibly brave by choosing recovery, even when it feels stagnant.

Breaking Free from Limiting Beliefs

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with some deeply rooted beliefs—beliefs that have shaped how I see myself and the world, particularly around money and self-worth. One belief, in particular, has been hard to shake: that making money is difficult. Growing up, finances were a constant source of stress in my family. My parents often argued about money, and as a child, that made a lasting impression on me. It became something I internalized: making money is hard, life is hard, and because of that, I subconsciously created blockages around it.

But here’s the thing—I’ve realized these aren’t my beliefs. They were passed down to me, shaped by my parents’ experiences, and as I grew older, they became part of my mental framework. Now, as I confront this narrative, I understand that just because I absorbed these beliefs at a young age doesn’t mean I have to carry them forward. I can rewrite my story.

I want to share this because if you’ve ever struggled with limiting beliefs, especially around money, self-worth, or capability, know that you’re not alone. We don’t have to accept these narratives as truth. Instead, we can actively work to change them.

The belief that making money is hard isn’t something I consciously chose. It was modeled for me, and as a child, I believed what I saw. Now, I can see how this mindset has affected me as an adult. I currently don’t have a source of income, which has sometimes led me to feel inadequate or like I’m falling behind compared to my peers. I dropped out of high school at 14 after my dad’s suicide—something that shattered my sense of normalcy and caused my mental health to spiral. I’ve struggled with depression and feelings of inadequacy ever since, especially when it comes to believing in my ability to succeed.

But here’s what I’m learning: those feelings of inadequacy don’t define me. Just because I didn’t take the same path as others doesn’t mean I’m incapable of achieving my dreams. Dropping out of school and dealing with grief and depression at such a young age doesn’t make me any less capable than my peers. It’s just a different journey.

I’ve begun the work of challenging these beliefs, and it’s not easy. But it’s necessary. I’ve realized that these fears—about money, capability, and success—don’t belong to me. They belong to my parents, to a past version of myself, and to a story that I no longer need to carry. Deep down, I know I’m capable. Even though that belief is buried beneath layers of self-doubt and fear, I catch glimpses of it every so often, and I know it’s real.

The goal now is to dig that belief out, to dust it off, and display it proudly. Saying this is one thing, but putting it into practice is another. It takes time and effort to shift the narrative, but it’s possible. I am worthy of having nice things and living the life I envision for myself. It’s not just a pipe dream—it’s my reality in the making.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve had to learn is that there’s no rush. You don’t have to have it all figured out by the time you’re 20 or 25—or even 30. Society puts so much pressure on us to achieve success early in life, but the reality is that everyone’s timeline is different. Healing from past traumas and challenging deeply ingrained beliefs takes time. Your journey is valid, no matter how long it takes.

You are not falling behind. You are not incapable. You are learning, growing, and shifting in ways that will set you up for long-term success. The mind is a powerful thing, and by learning to use yours in your favour, you’re already making progress.

Remember, the life you envision for yourself is not just a dream. It’s your future reality. You are capable of achieving it, even if the path looks different from what you expected. Every step you take to challenge limiting beliefs and nurture self-compassion brings you closer to the life you deserve.

So keep going. Trust the process, trust yourself, and know that you are worthy of abundance, success, and happiness. You are capable of creating the life you dream of.

The Fear Beyond Weight Gain: A Recovery Reflection

There’s something I don’t see talked about very often in discussions about anorexia: the idea that the fear isn’t always just about gaining weight. For many of us, the disorder can’t simply be boiled down to that one thing. Yet, it's the aspect I see most often emphasized in conversations. But I believe the fear isn't truly about weight gain—it’s about losing control in a way that would lead to weight gain. That loss of control, both over our bodies and our minds, is the real terror.

When I started my recovery from anorexia, I wasn’t scared of gaining weight—I was scared of staying underweight. Being 51 kg at 5'9" terrified me. For the first time, I could truly see the damage I had inflicted on my body. I looked at myself and didn’t see beauty or strength; I saw someone fragile, skeletal, and depleted. I realized that I wasn’t just sick—I was stuck. My eating disorder had trapped me in a body that looked and felt more like a child’s than an adult’s, and that’s when I knew something had to change.

I wanted to gain weight. I wanted my curves back—my thighs, my hips, my energy. I wanted to escape the constant lethargy, the brain fog, and the bone-deep tiredness that came from starving myself. But even though I knew what I needed, the obsessive thoughts and rigid patterns around food kept playing on a loop in my head, like an annoying song you just can’t shake.

One of the most difficult exercises I started during my recovery was standing in front of the mirror and just looking at myself. Before getting dressed, I would stand there in the bathroom, turning from side to side, seeing my hip bones jutting out, the outline of my ribs, my spine protruding as I contorted my back. I hated what I saw. I still do, sometimes. But this daily ritual forced me to confront the reality of what I was doing to myself.

I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I couldn’t continue making the choices that had led me to this point. That was the turning point for me—I knew I had to push myself to change, no matter how hard it felt.

Recovery is not a straight path. It’s messy, exhausting, and filled with moments where the eating disorder voice tries to drag you back. But I started small. I made myself finish meals, even when it took hours to get through a simple bowl of porridge. There were days when I’d sit for four hours, anxious and on edge, but I finished it anyway. The anxious thoughts didn’t disappear overnight, but I learned to push through them, knowing that every bite was a step toward healing.

It wasn’t just about food, though—it was about how I thought about food, and how I thought about myself. When those ED thoughts reared their ugly heads, judging and criticizing, I had to find ways to cope. On especially tough days, I’d wear a rubber band around my wrist and snap it when the thoughts became overwhelming. It was a small way to bring myself back to reality, to ground myself in the present moment instead of spiraling into panic.

Over time, I built a routine. I started with simple, non-overwhelming foods, easing myself through each meal without overthinking it. One meal at a time, one day at a time. The important thing was that I never allowed myself to skip meals anymore. Not eating was no longer an option. It’s a hard line I drew for myself because I knew if I allowed that door to stay open, I’d fall back into old habits.

Even now, I still have difficult days. The recovery process is not linear, and there are moments where the disordered thoughts come back with force. But I remind myself that I’m stronger than those thoughts. I remind myself that my health, my life, is more important than the control the disorder wants to have over me.

What I’ve come to realize is that the fear surrounding anorexia isn’t just about gaining weight—it’s about losing control. It’s the fear of what happens when we let go of the rigid rules we’ve set for ourselves. But the control that anorexia promises is an illusion. It doesn’t protect us—it destroys us.

Recovery is about taking that control back, not by starving or shrinking ourselves, but by nourishing and healing ourselves. It’s about rebuilding a relationship with food and with our bodies that is rooted in care, not punishment. It’s about learning to trust our bodies again, to let them guide us back to health.

To anyone who is struggling, know this: you are not alone in these feelings. The fear is real, but so is your strength. Recovery takes time, patience, and an immense amount of courage, but every small step forward is worth it. Keep pushing, keep challenging those disordered thoughts, and most importantly, keep eating. You deserve a life that isn’t defined by fear or control. You deserve to feel strong, energized, and alive.

HO, HO, NO.

As someone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, this day often feels like any other. Well, actually, that’s a bit of a lie. This time of year, for me at least, isn’t particularly joyful. It’s when I struggle the most—not only because of my father’s passing but also because of the memories it stirs from my childhood.

Growing up, my father couldn’t decide if we were or weren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses. For clarification: we weren’t—especially not with what he was really doing for New Year’s. But we also didn’t have any real traditions. My dad was first-generation born here, and while my mum’s side had family get-togethers and presents, there wasn’t much else to ground us. No rituals, no deeper meaning—just a day on the calendar that felt like it belonged more to others than to us.

I know there are others out there who find this time of year difficult or even depressing. If that’s you, I want you to know: this time of year doesn’t have to look a certain way. It doesn’t have to be experienced through one specific lens. It can be whatever feels right for you.

Maybe that means taking moments to reflect on what you’ve been through and accomplished this year, or setting intentions for the one to come. Maybe it’s about creating your own tradition—something wholly original and deeply personal to you.

For many, this season can feel isolating, whether physically, emotionally, or mentally. So, I want to remind you: be kind to yourself. I know it sounds cliché, but real kindness toward yourself requires mindfulness. It keeps us grounded in the present—not endlessly trying to fix the past or predict and control the future.

The only moment we truly have is now.

It’s a simple view, yes, but simplicity can be powerful. We live in a world of over-information. Hyper-aware of our personal state, our communities, and the wider world, we often slip into paralysis. As a generation flooded with data, it’s easy to feel like the weight of fixing the world rests on our shoulders.

But it doesn’t.

Our work begins with ourselves—small, impactful changes that remind us to live in the now. It’s stepping away from the screen to pick up a book, grabbing a piece of fruit and heading outside to feel the sun on your skin, listening to the sounds of your environment, and appreciating them for what they are.

Above all, I hope you have grace for yourself because you deserve it. Your relationship with yourself is so important. It’s a relationship worth nurturing with understanding and compassion—the same way we care for others.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read through these posts. It means a lot to me to share this part of my journey with you. Please feel free to check back, as I’ll be adding to these memoirs periodically with new insights and experiences. Recovery is a continuous process, and I’m grateful to have this space to share my story with you all.

Much love,