My Journey with Body Image: Overcoming Eating Disorders, Self-Love, and Finding Balance

Disclaimer: This story is a personal reflection of my journey with body image, eating, and healing. I share it with the hope of offering insight and support. If you are currently struggling with an eating disorder or feel triggered by these topics, please know that you are not alone, and help is available. Consider reaching out to a healthcare professional or support network. Your mental and physical well-being is the priority, and healing is possible at your own pace. Always remember, it’s okay to seek help.

I grew up in what is now called an almond mom household. (If you’re unfamiliar, an almond mom is a parent who follows incredibly strict or borderline unhealthy eating habits and pushes them onto their children. Think: food rules, calorie obsession, and a general fear of anything too enjoyable.) Back then, though, it wasn’t a trending term—it was just normal life (unless you were lucky enough to grow up in a family that prioritized health in a balanced way, encouraged body neutrality, and spent time outside while eating whole foods. To those kids: sorry we made fun of your lack of Twistables and S’Mores Pop-Tarts. Turns out, you were right).

But let’s be fair—this wasn’t just a mom thing. At least, not in my house.

As an only child of high-achieving parents, the expectations were high across the board—academically, professionally, and physically. My parents had built their lives through grit: one defying the odds as a child of immigrant parents who never learned English and lived in poverty, the other through traditional hard work—college, business, success. That same hustle mindset bled into everything, including beauty.

Was it because one parent understood that meeting society’s beauty standards could be a strategic advantage—one that could open doors and create opportunities? (Because, let’s be real, they weren’t wrong—thanks for looking out.) Or was it because, somewhere along the way, “fat” had become synonymous with “ugly,” and “ugly” with “invaluable”?

Who knows?

So when people ask me when my eating disorder began, it’s hard to pinpoint a single moment—because it was always there, woven into the environment I grew up in.

Elementary school: Watching my parents yo-yo with the Atkins diet.

5th grade: “Now is the time you want to start working out before it’s too late.”

6th grade: Weighing myself every morning.

7th grade: Running sprints in my backyard, counting sit-ups, timing wall sits.

8th grade: “Why don’t you try cutting out carbs and sugar?”

Sprinkled among all of this was praise. Praise when I worked out. Praise when I lost weight. Praise when I chose a salad instead of a sandwich.

By high school, I didn’t need the comments at home to fuel my growing body dysmorphia and disordered eating—it had taken on a life of its own, controlling my thoughts and shaping my sense of worth.

Things got scary for the first time during my freshman and sophomore years of college. I remember coming home to have my wisdom teeth removed. Around that time, I had swung to the other end of the eating disorder spectrum: bingeing. I was staying up past midnight, making late-night Steak ‘n Shake runs multiple times a week, eating out constantly thanks to a new relationship, and drinking a lot because…college.

I knew my clothes were tighter. I knew I was bigger. But I brushed it off—blaming bloating, bad digestion, anything that felt fixable.

Then I came home and heard the confirmation I had been dreading: “You’ve gained weight.”

In my house, that was a sentence rarely spoken—not because of the harm it could cause, but because we were expected to be ahead of the curve, already “fixing” the problem before anyone had to point it out.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in months—maybe a year—and saw a number I had never come close to before. And just like that, I spiraled.

How do I lose this weight immediately?!

"Well, the wisdom tooth removal will be good because I’ll be on a limited diet."

"Maybe afterward, I’ll do Atkins for a quick reset."

"No more eating out. DEFINITELY no more fast food."

"I’m going to start running a mile a day as soon as I get back to school."

The panic set in fast, and suddenly, the only thing that mattered was undoing what I had done.

And so it began. Slowly at first. My wisdom tooth removal diet didn’t give me the results I wanted, so I panicked. I tried “healthy” Pinterest recipes, but nothing changed. I did my Atkins diet for about 10 days to kickstart the weight loss, that worked! That gave me the motivation to keep it up. I couldn’t risk ANYTHING that would cause me to fall backward now. So, I started hitting the apartment gym. One mile a day. One mile a day had to make a difference.

I pushed myself—HARD. And this was huge because I absolutely loathe running. But I kept going. The streak became its own motivation. Three days turned into nine. Nine turned into a month. No breaks.

When I traveled, I panicked, making up for missed runs with extra workouts—physical punishment for stepping out of line.

Then one day, as I shed my winter layers, my roommate looked at me and said, “You look smaller.”

She had always had a healthy relationship with food, with her body. I knew she was being careful with her words. But despite her caution, all I heard was:

I’m losing weight. I’m becoming beautiful. I’m becoming valuable.

That one comment—no matter how well-intended—held the validation I had been chasing my whole life. Beauty meant power. And I was becoming powerful.

I couldn’t stop now.

So, I ran more. Pushed harder. How far could I go? How much faster could I be? My meals shrank to an apple on the way to class, a large Starbucks latte, and some variation of vegetables and chicken for dinner. The comments kept rolling in.

“You look great!”
“You’ve lost weight!”
“Have you been working out?”

And it wasn’t just friends, roommates, and coworkers—it was the people whose opinions I valued most.

My parents.

I couldn’t lie to myself—I was enjoying the changes I was seeing. I’d look in the mirror and feel proud of how I looked, how my clothes fit, and how I could finally go to the pool without second-guessing myself.

But here’s where it gets tricky: I’d framed all of this under the guise of “pursuing a healthier lifestyle.” I’d choose a bowl of fruit over chips by the pool, eat only half my dinner out with friends to avoid feeling “overstuffed,” and run obsessively because, hey, I was finally enjoying it... or so I told myself.

But the truth? I was happy.

Most stories you hear about eating disorders are riddled with body dysmorphia, constant self-criticism, and isolation. They paint a picture of constant stress, depression, and weakness. But for me, at the time, I was thriving. I was getting the validation I’d been craving, from the comments to the numbers on the scale.

But then… the comments began to shift:

“Hey, is that all you’re going to eat?” “I made some scones—will you taste test them for me?” “Why don’t you skip running today? Let’s do something else together?” “Suzy, are you okay?” “Suzy, I’m concerned.” And the most gut-wrenching of them all: “Suzy, you look sick.”

That last one? From my mom. And that’s when the reality hit—things were really bad.

I wish I could tell you there was an immediate turning point—a lightbulb moment where I suddenly began to heal. But it wasn’t that clear-cut. Healing was a slow, subtle shift. Around this time, my spirituality began to awaken. I started reading books like Eat, Pray, Love and The Book of Joy, which opened my eyes to embodiment and the beauty of loving and listening to my body.

I found solace in creating a morning routine—yes, a breakfast routine! I’d have three fruits, avocado toast, coffee, and an apple cider vinegar wellness drink. I worked out, but much more gently—just 20-30 minutes of movement a day. Some days it was a one-mile run, others it was leg, arm, or ab workouts. I went to my sorority house and ate lunch (yes, lunch!). I stopped drinking. I focused on nourishing meals with vegetables, protein, and healthy fats, and I stopped eating after 7 pm.

I wasn’t weighing myself anymore, but I could feel the difference. My collarbones weren’t as prominent, and my face had more color and life. My hair grew down to my waist. My skin cleared up. And the best part? I started experiencing real joy—not the kind that comes from how I looked, but joy in the simple pleasures of life.

I was present. Joyful in cooking, sipping on a great cup of coffee, sitting on my patio attempting to watercolor, shopping at the farmer’s market, and going to art festivals. I started collecting beautiful things—jewelry, clothes, and art for my college bedroom. For the first time in a long while, my joy wasn’t about my body. It was about everything else.

The years between 2013 and 2017 were a rollercoaster, and since then, I’ve had moments of feeling healed and at peace with my body. But I’ve also had times where the urge to control how I look went beyond cutting calories or over-exercising. Here’s what I’ve learned: full recovery isn’t about achieving perfection. It’s a daily journey of quieting negative thoughts, resisting the urge to skip meals (which still happens), and choosing joy in movement over judgment.

And that’s okay. Recovery isn’t linear. It’s a lifelong process, with slip-ups along the way. I might long for those “glory days” when I had a nourishing routine, but through all the ups and downs, I’ve found one truth that keeps me grounded—and maybe it’ll help you too:

My body is my ally.

Your body wants to work for you. It’s not trying to sabotage you. When it’s inflamed, bloated, sluggish, or when health issues start popping up, it’s not out to get you. It’s asking for your help. It’s your partner, your friend, saying, “Hey! Something’s off, and I need your attention! Nourish me, move me, love me, and I’ll be here for you.”

When your body and mind are in sync, I hope you find the peace and softness you need in your relationship with yourself. I hope you start choosing food that nurtures both your body’s needs and your joy, not as a means to an end. I hope you approach movement with curiosity, seeing it as an act of joy and celebration, not as a punishment to reshape your body. And most of all, I hope that when you think about your body, you do it with gratitude, compassion, and the mindset of, “Let’s do this, babe.”

Because when you treat your body with love, it will give that back to you. When you stop forcing it into a mold and instead focus on living authentically, you’ll find your skin might clear up, your energy will skyrocket, and that glow you thought was long gone? It’ll come back, even stronger. When you feed your body with the nutrients it craves, you’ll unlock emotional stability and energy you didn’t even realize you were missing.

Your body is working hard for you, every single day. Can you let it?