I first encountered the harsh reality of body shaming back in sixth grade when the boy I had a crush on told me to “go home and take some growing pills” because I hadn’t developed yet. I did go home, but I ended up crying to my bewildered mother, who encouraged me to let it go. That charming boy with the perfect dimple was my heartthrob, and I couldn’t shake off the sting of his words.
That incident marked a turning point in my young life. As I began to transition into adolescence, I became acutely aware of how others perceived me, and with it came the first whispers of confusing judgment. It disrupted my innocent world where I played with my toy goat and fantasized about owning a kitten. Little did I know, lurking beneath my panic disorder, an eating disorder was quietly taking shape, waiting to make its dramatic entrance years later.
Fast forward to my junior year of high school—I hit my heaviest weight ever. Looking back at old photos, I couldn’t believe I had been considered just a bit chubby at one point. This isn’t self-deprecation, just a reflection, given that I’ve spent much of my life in a painfully thin state.
I’m not sure how it all began, but my eating disorder emerged alongside crippling anxiety. The type that immobilizes you, making you feel like your body is a stranger as goosebumps prick your skin, and a tsunami of fear threatens to drown you. The kind that compels you to hide, always ready to erupt at the slightest trigger. Most importantly, it was the kind of anxiety I felt I had to keep hidden from the world.
In a desperate attempt to confront my inner turmoil, I found myself seated in a therapist’s office. I would drop my purse and coat and we would only skim the surface of my issues. My therapist, a warm woman with a reassuring smile, encouraged me to dig deeper, but her insistence made me increasingly uncomfortable. Just as I was about to bolt (anxiety, take 32!), she suggested I get a workbook to explore my emotions.
I bought that workbook in the safety of a bookstore, only to bring it home and stare at it with wide eyes and a churning stomach, fighting the very anxiety it aimed to quell. I tucked it away, as just glancing at it felt like inviting chaos back into my life.
Throughout it all, I remained thin. My go-to excuses were, “I have a high metabolism,” “I guess it’s in my genes,” “I do eat—just ask anyone at home!” “Yes, you can take my plate; it was delicious!” and “I just wasn’t hungry.”
When body dysmorphia sets in, it sneaks up on you like a thief in the night. I learned about “Lollipop heads” while my weight fluctuated, stabilizing only to dip or rise by a pound or two repeatedly. For years, I was indifferent to numbers or reflections in mirrors, terrified I’d never find a way to feel safe again, to halt the inevitability of change whenever I became attached to something.
In 2007, I learned my father was going to prison for breaking the law. During that time, a doctor nonchalantly told me during a routine check that I had an eating disorder. I cried and felt a knot tighten within me. I had been completely unaware of my own illness. Relatives insisted they’d known for years and questioned how I could be oblivious to it. “Restrictive eating disorder,” my psychiatrist labeled it. Suddenly, I was forced to see a therapist, a nutritionist, and my general doctor twice a week when my weight plummeted. I needed food to survive, yet I didn’t know how to embrace it. My life felt like a series of traumatic events, manifesting as an illness that threatened my health and sparked relentless anxiety.
Food was a threat, a remnant of childhood trauma. Whether it was expired food from my fridge or a father who yelled at me to “Eat, dammit!” while I struggled to breathe at the dinner table, nothing felt safe. But food became the one thing I could control.
Finally, I began to understand myself. Years of relentless pursuit towards health, dissecting what triggered my panic and gradually severing ties with negative beliefs about myself led me to this moment. After decades of therapy and medications, I now embrace my muffin top, which brings me joy when I catch a glimpse of it spilling over my pants.
When I hear body shaming comments about a woman’s figure, it makes me cringe. When I hear someone criticized for their droopy breasts, I feel a fire inside. I love my muffin top because it symbolizes my journey through dark times. I ignited the flame of my own recovery, even when I couldn’t see the path ahead, driven solely by the desire to move forward. My faith in myself, though at times flickering, has never truly vanished.
People often conceal their struggles due to fear of judgment, lack of healing tools, or because they’ve been conditioned to accept mistreatment. They hide due to echoes of laughter from vulnerable moments, memories that serve as painful reminders of their weaknesses. They compete with societal ideals and question their resilience in surviving senseless loss. This internal struggle can consume them bit by bit, as they seek safety amidst chaos.
But I urge everyone to choose help over hiding, to speak out rather than shrink away. Embrace those around you who genuinely want to lift you up and, most importantly, cherish every part of yourself as you release the chains of trauma. Celebrate all that you are—the powerful and the uncertain. And if you’re on the road to recovery from an eating disorder, especially take the time to appreciate your wonderful, beautiful muffin top.
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