My Journey with Body Image
A personal reflection on the destructive path of dieting, and escaping the cycle of obsession and guilt
One thing I learned from a very young age was that appearances matter. I believe I was around five or six when I had the first lesson in this regard. I was in kindergarten and we were doing some sort of play. My mom had made me a lovely pink outfit with a short skirt and a shirt.
She had me try it on a couple of times before sending me out into the world in it. She wanted to make sure I knew how to walk around in it, how to behave.
I don’t remember exactly what I did — I assume I must have run around the house as kids do at that age. It resulted in my clothes getting all messed up. The shirt had slightly lifted and my skirt was a little twisted sideways.
My mom immediately pointed out how ridiculous I looked. If someone saw me looking like that, what would they say? They’d make fun of me, and think I was a stupid little girl who couldn’t even dress properly!
Not too long after, people started telling me I had a bit of belly fat and that is ugly for a young girl. Tuck the belly in, and make sure nobody notices it. When that was not possible, Mom and I would spend hours figuring out an outfit that wouldn’t show my chubby shape.
I wouldn’t say this made me obsessed with my appearance. Not immediately, anyway. Despite repeatedly reminding me I was fat, my mom never tried to put me on a diet. But it was always something I kept in the back of my mind. People would like me more if I were skinnier.
The road to hell is always paved with good intentions
In my early 20s, getting ready to graduate from college, life was spiraling out of control. Nothing tragic. Just your usually early 20s existential crisis.
I was still chubbier than I wanted to be; I wasn’t sure where I was going next, and I had recently broken up with my boyfriend.
It was with that mindset that I discovered an area of my life that I could control at all times — my body. More specifically, my diet. It all started as a game with my roommates. We wanted to lose a few pounds before graduation.
We didn’t want to do anything crazy, just clean up our diets a bit. If I’m honest, that wasn’t hard at all, and it was probably a good decision. Our college diet consisted mostly of McDonald’s, KFC, pizza, pastries, tons of chocolate, and, of course, alcohol.
We took the junk out, brought in the home-cooked meals and salads, and pounds were melting off in front of our eyes. We all reached our goal by graduation. It was an amazing feeling.
Everyone was complimenting me on my looks. Even my mom liked the way I looked. I could fit in clothes and shop in stores that had been a complete no for me my entire life.
My friends were happy with their progress and decided to switch to a “maintenance” phase in their diets. I tried for a couple of days and noticed I had gained half a pound back. I freaked out! There was no way I was going to let go of my progress.
Back on a diet I went!
When a harmless goal turns into a downward spiral to destruction
The first goal of losing just a few pounds turned into a new goal. I was a size 8 at this point. I wanted to get to a 6. Maybe even a 4. And then maybe, just maybe, I could get to a 2 or a 0 like my favorite actress.
My diet became my special interest. Being neurodivergent, I made it my whole world and identity.
I read everything under the sun about nutrition, macros, and calories. I began obsessing over what was healthy and what wasn’t, measuring everything all the time. Before I knew it, I couldn’t even eat in restaurants because I didn’t know exactly how much oil or sugar or whatever else went into their recipes.
When I inevitably hit a plateau, I added exercise to the mix, while trying to restrict my calories a bit more. By this point, I was already down to around 1,200 calories.
Every calculator out there was telling me I was going into a dangerous territory of undereating. But I didn’t listen. What did they know?! I was fine. Better than I’d ever been. I was looking my best, getting closer and closer to my size 4 goal.
At my worst, I was eating somewhere between 600–800 calories per day, while exercising for at least one hour. And when I say exercise, I don’t mean yoga. I was only doing high-intensity stuff. Anything else was a waste of my time.
The road was taking me into anorexia, but I somehow met bulimia on the way and stayed with it for a few years. When my body couldn’t take the purging anymore, binge eating disorder took its place.
Before I knew it, the pounds started piling back up at an alarming speed. I remember the panic, the distress. My life was over. I felt an incredible sense of shame each time I had to go out of the house. I felt like everyone was looking at me, laughing, and talking behind my back, saying how little control I had, how weak I was, how fat, and ugly.
The truth was, nobody was talking behind my back. I was the only one saying those things to myself. I was my own worst enemy. And I hated myself more than they ever would.
That realization was also my way out. I had to stop fighting against myself and punishing my body for crimes it had never committed. So I allowed myself to eat. And gain weight. And just live life.
Eventually, after months of binging, eating 3,000 calories a day in junk food, I woke up one day and realized I wanted a salad. It wasn’t about my weight, or about what people thought. It was about me. I felt like eating something light.
Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is self-acceptance
I’ve been “in remission” for about 6 years now. I still have moments when I wonder how many calories I’m really eating or if I should lose a couple of pounds. But most of the time, I care more about how I feel.
If I’m honest, the body can be an amazing thing when you allow it. It does tell you what it needs. Some days, that’s a salad. On other days, it’s pizza. And if you go with the flow, you might realize life is not so bad after all.
