A Life Without Running

I feel there are many reasons I developed an eating disorder (predisposition, type-A personality, being a people-pleaser, etc). It began with disordered eating (which, unfortunately, is very common), and when the key turned into the lock at a track race back in 2010 (the final trigger), it went from disordered eating to an eating disorder as I flat-out dropped twenty pounds from a perfectly healthy bodyweight, strove to please a coach, compared myself to a smaller runner, and felt the approval of success with my faster running times.
Eating less and running fast became everything to me.
Of course, as many of you know, the raw food diet stepped into the picture a year later. Then entered a year of bingeing, and another year later something cracked–literally–when my kneecap broke.
As devastating and as painful as this injury was (more to be shared in an another piece/manuscript I’m writing?), a part of me also felt that it was the end to the madness. There was no possible way for me to race. I no longer had to compare my body to other runners. I had time to sit with myself and see what else there was to my life beyond running and food.
This, of course, was not an easy transition–and the eating disorder worsened before it improved–but by the end and up until this day I am better off not running consistently or competitively.
There's nothing like breaking your kneecap to get you to stop running.
There’s nothing like breaking your kneecap to get you to stop running.
I no doubt still love to run. And when I think about how fast I used to be–how wonderful it felt to float across the ground, how much I enjoyed the freedom, how excited I felt to race, what a joy it was to help out my teammates while racing–I know I just can’t go back to it for a while. Even when I do try interval training once in a while or simply go for a run, if I know the distance or time I get down on myself, or get so competitive that I think about how I could restrict again or purge and how good it would feel to reach the top.
Whenever these thoughts flood back into my mind, I remind myself of where I am in my life: happy and fulfilled at last. As much as running adds happiness to my life, it also has an element of madness, and I do very well without running, as I’ve come to find out.
I will always miss running as fast as I used to. I will always yearn for that euphoric joy. But I know that when I ran that fast, it was really the only area of my life that brought me happiness. At this point, it is too risky to be competitive, and simply exercising too much causes the eating disorder that lurks beneath to surface.
Benefits of Low-Key Lifestyle
A life without running does have its perks. I’m not as hungry as often (since I’m not burning as many calories), which makes me less self-conscious about how much food I eat in front of others. I don’t binge as often either because I can go longer periods without eating and not feel ravenous. I also have embraced my body a lot more because I no longer solely view it as an instrument for running fast.


I also find myself more daring–I can stray away from my previously strict schedule, I can participate in activities that may risk a little injury (even the smallest things like a blister or scratch on my foot caused great distress for me in the past because it might mean a day off from running), and I allow myself to eat other foods because I don’t feel the pressure to eat “purely,” or eat as few calories as possible. And even though I allow myself to be much more fluid with my food choices, I do not do it in an unhealthy way–I eat some treats without going over the top.
No one tells you how much grieving there is in loss, and I have certainly had a long grieving period. I am still sad over the loss of running, but the tradeoff–having my life back–is well worth it. Running will always feel like a long-lost friend, but I know there is potential for it to return to me (healthfully) in the future.
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Always Aware

I told many people that my main reasons for going raw were for ultimate health and to prevent any and all disease. Even if those are indeed advantages in consuming a raw diet, they were not my main reasons for going raw. As many of you know from reading my blog, I went raw to have an excuse to eat more food with fewer calories and make it look “acceptable”–that I was doing it for physical health and well-being when really, I was only feeding into my ever-growing eating disorder.
I eventually had to give up the raw food diet (more to be explained in my upcoming book). My mental state had gone severely downhill, and that compromised my overall health more than a raw food diet might have aided in the health of my body.
I still don’t know for sure how much a raw food diet can prevent all disease, but while we are striving to eat as healthy as possible (with healthy attitudes/mindsets) it’s still important to look out for signs of cancer. And since it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Bankers Healthcare Group, a company that provides loans for doctors and other healthcare professionals, has provided this great infographic on their blog BHG360 that gives great tips, warning signs, and routines to take in caring for our bodies. Just as it’s important to spread awareness for eating disorders and understand the warning signs, we must be aware of these breast cancer warning signs as well.


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Friends Forgotten

I felt happy for most of my high school years. I can’t say it was a joy ride, but it certainly wasn’t bad. I mainly focused on running and schoolwork, but I also built relationships with my friends and made a few new ones—until the connection between weight and running became the sole focus in my life.
During my final semester of high school I counted calories as teachers taught lessons in class. I ate lunch alone. I wore baggy pants and sweatshirts because I couldn’t muster the energy to wear something nice, and because those were the warmest clothes I had for a body that constantly felt chilled. I dragged myself through the hallways in silence and fatigue. I ran my track races with the main goal to please my coach and to try to feel a greater sense of worth.


In college, things would change, I thought. They had to. With each run leading up to that first college semester, I assessed my body and yearned for energy again. I hoped I would find happiness. College was supposed to be the period where I could start over and show the real Rachael I had always wanted to let out.
College was a fantastic transition for me, no doubt. I wrote to my parents and family friends about how happy I was, how much I enjoyed the freedom, how great it was to run the fastest I had ever run in my life. But as I got further and further into the college scene, I began to realize how tough it really was to be who I knew I was deep down—the person I had hoped, by then, would come out. I searched for opportunities to bring the real Rachael out at last, but even though I attended events on campus, shared my knowledge of nutrition, and won races, I still could not seem to connect with my own teammates on a deeper level than just running. I made friends with my classmates, but in reality, they were probably more just like acquaintances for those first few years.

Reaching Out

During my sophomore year of college I emailed my friend Sharon about my food difficulties. And now, four years later, I recently told her how sorry I was that our conversation back then was probably the extent of my connection with her; that I hadn’t talked with my childhood friend Jackie in months; that even with the other few friends I made in college, I had good times with them but my mind was so occupied with the eating obsession, that I never had time to be there for them when they had taken so much time and energy to be there for me.
Working to recover from the eating disorder was the path to bring out Rachael. The Rachael deep within screamed to be heard, demanded to be exactly who she was. But it was a mess–it was like a rebirth, and not without the complications and “yuck.” It meant ups and downs with the emotions, dealing with the torrent of bingeing to periods of restriction, letting my fear drive me to bulimia, and losing everything I ever thought I had wanted in life—the thinnest body I could achieve, success in running I had only ever dreamed of, and pleasing everyone around me with my performances.

Coming Into My Own

College ended up as a five-year period of forging a new relationship with myself. While I had sunken into the eating disorder for my last semester of high school, now in my last semester of college I rose with a stable energy and a newfound joy in simply being. And suddenly, I discovered it was easy to be open with others; that I was no longer just talking about running and nutrition; that it was effortless to share my opinions and practice confidence; that it was okay (and even kind of funny) to make mistakes—and that my body was not a mistake.
And with all of that, stronger friendships developed.
I could say that I found myself too late; that now that I have graduated college and I am happier than ever, I had lost many opportunities to be all of myself during those college years and develop great relationships. But it took the eating disorder to force self introspection, development, and to be the wakeup call I had needed for so long.
Thank you to the friends who stuck with me through the worst of it–when I wasn’t the happiest, most exciting friend–but stayed with me until the end.
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A+ Attitude

I’ve recently been told (and quite often now), that I have a great attitude on life.
For someone who felt like she had such a bad attitude years ago (as an obsessed, possessed, distressed eating-disordered runner), this feels like both a compliment and a relief.
My life isn’t perfect, and I have a lot of things I could be unhappy about. I have not lost the weight I gained from bingeing. I do not run as fast as I used to. I’ve graduated college and I’m still looking for a job related to my degree. My book is not yet published (I’m working on it!).
And yet, because I am happy with who I am as a person–without needing validation or relying on numbers–I feel stable overall whether good or bad circumstances come my way.



Changing the attitude from bad to good first began with accepting myself. Even though I didn’t like the weight I had reached due to all the bingeing, and even though I hated how “slow” I had become as a runner, I had to finally accept that this was where I was going to be, that this was what I had to deal with, and that restricting–only to binge later–was a result of so desperately wanting to change who I was or how I looked. Acceptance was not a form of “giving up,” but instead seeing myself as someone worth more than her weight and fast running times, and someone who could begin to look past all of that and work on loving herself.
And how did the self-love process begin? Introspection has been the key for me (as I stress time and time again). I had to understand where the eating disorder started, why I felt the need to please others, how I could feel okay making mistakes (we are human, after all) and what parts of Rachael the eating disorder was covering.
An SSRI medication was a piece of the puzzle to calm anxiety and reduce feelings of guilt. Starting the medication did not come easily however, as the eating disorder side of me worried that a side effect could be weight gain (it never was). I also had to dare to try foods the eating disorder told me would pile on the weight. I had to allow myself to enjoy food when the eating disorder equated enjoyment with failure.
I also dared myself to get out and do things unrelated to running. I was encouraged by a friend to stray from my perfectionist, obsessed mentality. And as I met more people, as I learned that I actually liked to have these different experiences, I began to see and feel Rachael without an eating disorder break free.

race3Finding Peace

I understand how attitude is about perspective now when I wake up each morning no longer feeling guilty about what I ate the night before or feeling worried about if I will binge again. I no longer wake up thinking about whether I should restrict or find another way to eat “perfectly.” I no longer feel like I want to crawl out of my own body, and I don’t have to listen, through every cross country practice and race, you must restrict again, you must go back, you must close down, and you will binge and all will be lost.
Yes, I still have tough days. Yes, the eating disorder rears its head once in a while. No, I don’t have everything together. But knowing that I am progressing, that I enjoy spending time with my friends as well as by myself, and after gaining a new perspective after struggling for years with the eating disorder, a good attitude has prominence in my life.
Now that I’ve uncovered Rachael through acceptance, finding ways to love myself (through introspection, medication, daring to try new things) makes me excited to share this Rachael I have always wanted to bring out. I’m excited (and have that “great attitude” on life) because I’ve never really gotten to try out me; because this is the person I knew I had inside for so long–
Because I worked my ass off to get to her.
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The Pain of Change

Memories of the good times you had before everything go downhill are a mix of incredibly annoying and addicting to hold onto. It’s fascinating how vivid those movie-like flashbacks are, and how distracting they can be when you are trying to move on with your life. Even when things are going well, there is always that lingering uncertainty and pain from a part of your life that used to bring you joy.
Pain and hurt have no mathematical, logistical measure of time before we know we are okay; thus we must treat these feelings with fluidity while encouraging ourselves to move forward. And moving forward often requires facing scary, unfamiliar situations that pull us out of our comfort zone–and to trust that we will learn along the way. This allows us to see what we’ve learned from the bad circumstances of our life, and to see that perhaps these difficult times brought us to a better place than where we would have been without the pain. I know that without having dealt with my eating disorder and the difficulties in running, I might not be out of my perfectionist mindset that I had carried with me throughout childhood and high school. Yes, it took years of struggle through recovery for me to let go of the pain, but through this, and having the courage to make small changes over time, I have learned that there were better things beyond the comfort of the eating disorder. It was the difficult times that finally allowed me to see my errors in perfectionism, worry, and fear.
Painful circumstances hurt, but I’m thankful for them because they are the things that bring us back to life–or perhaps even just to a life that we never knew before, and wouldn’t have had without the pain of change.
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“Please Notice When You Are Happy”

Reflecting on this past year (as today is my 24th birthday), I realize 23 has been very good to me.
This is not to say everything was perfect, but it was the fastest I have developed as a person and the best I’ve felt in my own body and mind because I continually stepped out of my comfort zone.
I have felt more satisfied because my happiness does not depend on a number on the scale or the time I have when I cross the finish line of a race. Self acceptance and relationships with family and friends are my main sources of happiness now–and it stems from introspection, challenging myself, and breaking away from the perfectionist mindset. I realized Rachael needs sass and opinions and mistakes and to stop saying “I’m sorry” for everything; and that because of it, Rachael is doing–as my college coach (Woj) was happy to say–“a lot more living (not just being alive).”


Kurt Vonnegut is quoted as saying, “I urge you to please notice when you are happy”–and how powerful these words are when we see that we can predict future happiness by noticing when we are happy from day to day. Happiness is more sustainable if it comes from being happy with who we are.
Yes, I still have bad days. Yes, I’m sure there will be hardship in the months or years ahead. But in this moment—when I know and trust myself—I am simply happy with being, with feeling like I am learning and discovering myself and my relationship with others.


Accept challenges and discomforts in your life, because it’s the only way you’re going to change and grow. It will move you toward the path of self love and acceptance—and that is the greatest achievement anyone can have because it touches all parts of your life.
That, my friends, is genuine happiness—and I want you to feel it with me because it’s a wonderful spot to be and the eating disorder has no place in it.
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The Difficulty in Understanding

Eating disorders thrive in secrecy. Friends and family members will rarely (if ever) see the dozen empty candy bar wrappers stashed in your trash (perhaps wrapped/hidden in crumpled toilet paper) or find measuring cups lying on the counter. It may take months or years for them to find the scale hidden beneath your bed.
They may never know your struggle until you tell them.
Having to explain your eating disorder to a loved one is probably one of the most difficult tasks to take in the journey to recovery. The biggest lesson I had to learn is that friends and family members simply may not understand–but the goal in itself isn’t to make them walk in your shoes. It’s to feel they will always support you and that even in their confusion, they will understand that having the disorder is just that–a disorder. It’s not a way of living we decide to take on.
The Questions
When I first told my mom about the eating disorder she seemed to continually ask the wrong questions and make the wrong suggestions (“Well let’s step on the scale to see where you’re at!” and, “But did you throw up all your food?”). It’s tough to get off to a good start when someone hasn’t experienced an eating disorder. My dad probably had one of the most difficult times trying to break it apart.
“How can you physically keep stuffing in more and more food?” he asked one night when we had agreed to sit down to talk. “I mean, I get to the point where enough is enough in one meal.”
I sat there trying to figure out how to help my dad understand this. It seemed so obvious to me, but I knew we had different bodies and different lifestyles. I had to help him see how different my mind and body processed food—especially since I had such a warped view of it after all the restriction in my past.
Thus the hour-long conversation went a little like this:
Me: “When you hold back on food for so long–like my two-year restriction–then your body is going to try to make up for it. It’s going to go for the simplest sugars. That’s why many people crave junk food at the end of the day if they don’t eat enough. Your body wants to find the most calorie-dense, simplest form of food so that it can break it down fast and get into the body’s cells. And with an eating disorder–with your body in that desperation mode–you often stuff yourself until you are uncomfortably full, even if it hurts.”

When running and nutrition dominated my life

Dad: “But how is that physically possible? When you’re full of food, how can you take any more in? That would feel so uncomfortable.”
Me: “The body will do anything in its power to get the calories, even if it means shutting off your brain to it or overcoming ‘willpower.’ Believe me, your body can do the seemingly impossible to get what it needs–especially when you have forcibly deprived it.”
Dad: *confused silence*
Me: “Do you understand that?”
Dad: “No, not really. Aren’t you full after a meal?”
Me: “I am, most of the time. But some days I feel hungrier than others. That’s when I go back to get another small meal or a snack, according to the meal plan I was given by my dietician. But I try to wait for a while first.”
Dad: “But where does ‘discipline’ and ‘disorder’ get mixed up? I mean does me eating a whole tub of ice cream qualify as a ‘disorder’? Or is it my lack of discipline?”
I could see his point with this last question, but it made me uncomfortable. I suddenly realized he did not see my case as a disorder at all, but perhaps just something to cover up a lack of discipline. He had not seen the battles raging in my mind, had not felt the emotional guilt during and after every meal.
Me: “I wouldn’t see that as a disorder unless you did it almost every night and felt guilty or out of control about it. If you are living in constant fear of food and fear eating all of that and feel like you can do nothing to stop yourself . . . if it holds you back from living a normal life, I feel like that would qualify as a ‘disorder.’”

Working towards that “normal” life beyond the obsession with food and researching nutrition. My friends were good influences.

Confusion and Building Trust
My dad and I continued to talk in circles late into the night. I hadn’t ever thought it would feel this difficult to explain the eating disorder to him. I had imagined that he would come away enlightened, fully understanding everything I had gone through.
It wasn’t until weeks later that I began to realize the best support I could have from my parents is that they were willing to listen, made an effort to understand through books and speaking to specialists in the area of eating disorders, and accepted that this was a disorder–that like anorexia on the opposite end of the spectrum where you cannot force someone to “just eat,” you could not force someone with binge eating disorder or bulimia to stop eating “too much.”
Despite the difficulties in understanding, I feel I have grown with one of the greatest support systems I could have ever asked for. I have spent countless hours venting, crying, and explaining my eating disorder to my mom. I repeated myself more times than I can remember, but the repetition–with someone there to listen–was essential in my recovery. I needed to speak, needed to repeat thoughts and feelings for me to come to my own realizations and make changes. If chose to change, if made the connections, I was much more willing to make better decisions for my body.
My loved ones listened. They allowed me to speak, encouraged me to get the confusion, loneliness, fear, and isolation out of my frantic mind.
I am my best form of myself now because of my parents and my friends.
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Finding Strength in Solitude

In the midst of a fall and winter of bingeing, it seemed as if all hope had disappeared from my life. All I could see ahead of me was losing myself more and more to the eating disorder. I was far from wanting to commit suicide, but looking at the dark wall ahead of me made me wonder if there was anything worth living for anymore. I knew I was blessed with so much in my life, but the black pit of grief and confusion kept me trapped in a mind and body I hated.
At a loss as to what to do for me, my friends suggested I learn to sit with myself–to find strength in solitude. Unfortunately this sounded like the worst solution, because at that point in my eating disorder being alone was the darkest part of my day.
Destruction in the form of bingeing, counting calories, obsessing, and occasional purging dominated any time I had to myself. My eating disorder thrived off of this chance for just the two of us to fight–a battle which I often lost. I was trapped in a mind with circulating thoughts, fear, and wondering when my next downfall would come.
My friends’ suggestion was not wrong by any means, but at this point in my life I didn’t want to be in my own mind. I had to learn how to battle the eating disorder with tools like the meal plan and understanding when and how the eating disorder rooted itself instead of putting a band-aid (“just love yourself!”) over the problem. Once I had a strategy to tackle the basic eating errors, loving and accepting myself eventually trickled in on its own.


Gradually I began to understand myself and the eating disorder enough to see solitude as a place of peace. I was no longer tiptoeing fearfully into isolation, but instead jumping into solitude to see what Rachael was thinking and exploring now. The screams of calories, weight, and defeat were no longer as strong, and I thought that perhaps I could actually live within myself again. The idea of being “stuck” with myself for the rest of my life finally didn’t seem too bad.
The black wall of lost hope began to disappear.
I sat with myself. I heard the real Rachael speak out between the written notes of calories and food rules. And as I stared into the darkness of the night, my mind exploding with exploratory internal dialogue, I enjoyed the new, kinder thoughts and revelations.
Healing and Growing
Now I needed time to remember who Rachael was without the obsessive thoughts. Now I had to remember what Rachael liked from the beginning–maybe even as far back as childhood when I participated in gymnastics, basketball, volleyball, and swimming along with running; the Rachael who enjoyed dessert pizza as well as fresh vegetables; the Rachael who created art, who led make-believe adventures on the playground with her friends, and who read dozens of novels (not all these eating disorder and diet books that litter my bookshelves).
To find Rachael again, I had to go back to that exploration of the self through activities and adventures.
The result? I began to have experiences where I felt the highs and lows of “normal” circumstances people deal with on a daily basis: Job problems. Stress in school. A broken heart. But also the excitement in meeting new people, having adventures outside of a fourteen-mile long run, and having more time to pursue my dreams since my days were no longer solely devoted to researching nutrition and worrying about calories.


The Balance
In these adventures I began to test my boundaries and limits. There were moments when my explorations went from finding freedom and excitement to just plain unhealthy actions, but those mistakes allowed me to see where my limits were and what was best for Rachael.
The bingeing and restricting of life experiences went from extremes to gradually finding a happy, healthy medium–just as I had done with food. But having that connection to myself–being able to speak with and listen to Rachael in solitude–allowed me to understand my choices and helped me to continually communicate with myself and grow.
Taking this journey into self-discovery gets tricky since eating disorders often thrive in loneliness. The key is to find solitude–that “holy” place where talking freely to yourself is therapeutic and helps you to progress rather than fall back. Getting to solitude instead of loneliness requires utilizing the recovery tools (like eating enough throughout the day, talking through the difficulties with someone, etc–whatever aids in your recovery). From there the journey to self-discovery, with occasional or even many slip-ups, will help us to find that happy balance and the road to recovery–
A natural path to self-love and acceptance.
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Rachael, Be Brave

“To try to be brave is to be brave.” –George MacDonald
Life outside of the eating disorder feels both scary and exhilarating. I’ve had to learn to adjust to and enter the “real world” outside of my own safe nutrition-obsessed cage–which means taking on adventures that initially sound too risky for the uptight Rachael. How would I get anything done? What if this means consuming more calories than if I were to stay at home with my healthier, controlled food? And what if the whole thing goes terribly wrong, leading to boredom, discomfort–or worse, embarrassment?
Taking on adventures that don’t involve 30 bananas a day means encouraging myself to go out and actually do things rather than stay holed up with a nutrition book or on the internet trying to find the “key to happiness” through a diet. Now that I’ve recovered from the eating disorder, I have to like, you know, live. I know that the Rachael deep down wants adventure and fun without guilt–but it takes that leap of bravery to get there.


So of course, it’s not been easy. Taking chances to stray away from my own schedule for an adventure that could go absolutely perfect or terribly wrong is a big risk–especially for the organized, scheduling, people-pleaser Rachael. The thing is, I know that by taking chances and getting “out there” will usually make me happy in the end for at least trying it.
The tough part is taking that first step.
On a recent trip, I found myself saying “Be brave, Rachael. Be brave.” And in following those wise words of wisdom the real Rachael had permission to come out at last and enjoy what life has to offer. The eating disorder voice was drowned out by laughter and bursts of joy–that, and by fun food and drinks of course. Even the awkward or embarrassing moments that did come up ultimately made for great stories to laugh about later. I found how much of myself I could be–how fun it is to balance the hard-working, organized, productive woman with the side of me who cracks jokes, is eager to take on spontaneous adventures, and can let her passion spill over to others.


Eating disorder recovery is scary because you have to be brave, you have to be daring, and you have to get out of your comfort zone in order to find adventure for the possibility of something wonderful–or yes, even disastrous. Like I mentioned in my last post, feeling great emotion (whether it’s terrible sadness or euphoric joy) is what comes with living a great life. By just staying home to be “productive” and “in control” with food all the time there would not be much to enjoy, no memories to share, no chance for a step in a new direction. I’ve found through wonderful experimentation that the more you try out this bravery thing, the better you get–and the more fulfilling life can be.
So be brave, readers.
Be brave.
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Embracing Emotion

“I am thawing.”
These are the final words in Laurie Halse Anderson’s book Wintergirls. Mind you, it’s a triggering eating disorder novel for those with eating disorders, but that’s probably because it’s one of the most accurate, artistic portrayals of what it’s like to deal with an eating disorder. And those final words in the book come closer to me than any other words I have read–words that very much describe what bingeing and recovering from the eating disorder did for me.
I thawed.


When I was at my thinnest I sat through high school like a zombie. I barely interacted with friends, nor did I care to try. I knew I felt sad, but it was a distant feeling, too. I simply got through each day attending school, running for the track team, practicing piano, spending hours on homework, and cross training with any extra time I might have had. I lived mostly on working and trying to please the adults in my life. Meanwhile, of course, my friends had almost all but disappeared. The only thing that seemed to keep me “happy” (or rather, in my own form of control) was the very thing keeping me trapped: restricting.
You would think that thawing would feel good–but that’s when the pain actually hit. That’s when my hunger roared like a beast unleashed, when my mind and body awoke to what I had done to it with all the restricting. Because with every binge, with every push back for life, my mind screamed with resistance and fear. My body was ready to fight back to get the Rachael that was meant to not merely exist, but to live.
I thought that researching nutrition further would save me, that a new diet might save me, that treating everything with numbers and logic would bring me back to where I needed to be. I fought myself for years doing this until my friends, family, and even a bit of myself helped me to let go.

Freshman runner to senior graduate! Many changes emotionally and physically in that time frame

The emotions that came with gaining the weight back and with developing into a normal “human” who interacted with society instead of staying home to research the 30 Bananas a Day diet online and smashing in salads until my jaw hurt, found me suddenly full of intense euphoria, intense anger, or intense sadness. Just as I was either restricting or bingeing, my emotions were seemingly following the same up-and-down path. It was not until I was completely removed from competition, applying more of my ED recovery tools, and using the support of my friends and family that I felt the comfort of a good thaw. I was allowing my body to do it’s thing. I was allowing my mind to rest from the numbers and fear. Instead of feeling the icicles slowly, painfully melt from my fingers, I felt the warm rush of life flood me.

Warm at Last

I think that no matter the destructive coping mechanism we deal with, we trap ourselves in a world of our own. It is not selfish, only a sign that we are struggling–and that we can’t get out alone. What life has to offer feels both horrifying and magnificent. We can eventually find balance if we take the chance to allow ourselves to thaw.
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