When you prep for a podcast, your host usually sends a welcome email, a confirmation, & asks the standard, polite question: “Is there anything you want me to avoid? Anything off-limits?”

I’ve always been curious to see what people choose to ask. What they focus on. What they saw from my application. I tell hosts, I’m fine not seeing questions beforehand because I want your authenticity as much as you want mine.

Still, I’ve named a few topics before, & I’ve hidden a few others, simply because they’d never come up organically. But then I did a podcast with a friend.

Mary—if you’re reading this—this is not negative in any way. That moment was mine, & I knew if I had asked to pivot, you would have respected that instantly.

In my mind, when people asked about “off-limits,” I’d think about my book, depression, my history—things that felt already discussed. The other parts of my life felt so far out of range that I didn’t even bring them up. So when Mary asked me that question, I didn’t really have anything to block off.

So, we started the conversation like normal—

We talked about how we met, mental health, the usual threads, & then. . .

Mary asked about my disordered eating in relation to depression & identity.

In that split second, my mind went everywhere.

Should I ask her to step back? I didn’t expect this. Is this what being “outed” feels like?

I panicked. . . if you watch the episode, you might see it on my face, the processing, the speed of it all. Because what was happening internally was a collision of fear, identity, & judgment.

but then, I laughed.

Because the truth is, I knew eventually I would talk about it. I knew with every share, I felt I was hiding a piece of the cloud, & if I’m choosing to really share, then ED should be a part of it.

Why do I always pivot?

What I call my “ED Monster” in support group, was built on fear, judgment, & perception.

Why don’t I talk about it more?

Because it feels like people have preconceived notions of what eating disorders look like & I don’t. That makes it harder to speak, because I immediately feel defensive. Shame creeps in. Like I have to explain: “I don’t do that… those aren’t my behaviors…”—while also holding the reality that there are things I still haven’t been able to course-correct. Honestly, it wasn’t until I was pregnant that I was able to see it clearly, say out loud that I needed to talk to someone, & actually get diagnosed.

& at the same time, I never want to invalidate other ED experiences—because so many people in my support groups have shown me the range & variety of what this can look like.. & they are my people. They’ve become like chosen family & I care deeply about how the world sees them, too. So how do I balance protecting myself & doing justice to kindness for struggles.

Well, that’s not something I wanted to take on & talk about.

But we talked about it.

*for the record, this post focuses on my experience with an eating disorder, trust me, depression clouds were very much present, but they’re not the focus here. When you hear hooves, don’t assume clouds . . .

I have disordered eating.

Actually… I hate saying it that way. I have an eating disorder.

I wrote a blog once, but never published it, so here it is. . .

Growing up, I was relentlessly bullied— I don’t want my children to be bullies. Beyond the obvious, “it’s mean”, but because bullying is something deeper- it’s a lack of creativity. In my experience, bullies are profoundly unimaginative, they default to brute force, often lack language, nuance, or curiosity to learn more.

I grew up in a very small town, surrounded by the same 33 kids from kindergarten through HS. I was bigger than the other girls.*

An important piece here is, & I say this intentionally, I wasn’t fat. My body was different, therefore I was different, & different meant bad.

It’s not lost on me the frustration when boys are bigger, but bigger is ideal because it means sports! Bubba becomes the town’s linebacker hero, while Barbara becomes a poor punchline. An insult.

I’ll admit, I knew I was different, but man there were so many better targets to bully me for if you really looked at my differences:

• We owned farm animals
• My last name rhymed with weenie
• I disappeared into fantasy books- pretended I was a wizard or elf
• My Mom was a vividly loud, self-named gypsy, who often told grumpy people their underwear has gotten too tight

None of that mattered, “fatty” was their ammo.

And I knew I was different, I was creative, outgoing, adventurous, but man there were no people who looked beyond at my positive differences.

My friends were the other outcasts, but not in a cinematic, Goonies or Stranger Things way where having each other saved the day. We didn’t bond over shared rejection; we bonded out of the convenience I gave them. My mom offered to drive us, so they offered to be friends.

That’s where my people-pleasing roots began: the early lesson, “if we’re going to be friends you have to add value to my life. Be useful. Earn this.”

I was placed into groups because small towns require collaboration- everyone plays on the sports teams, Girl Scouts, togetherness was mandatory, not chosen; at least for me, that was my companionship- never picked but assigned, conditional, and quietly lonely.

And all because I looked different.

Deep memories still surface:

• The first swim party, where my first nickname became Moby because I wore a two-piece and my stomach showed. Ignoring that I saved up all my money to buy her the Now! cd & be the first person in our class who would have it because she loved music.
• Asking for seconds at a friend’s house, only for her parents to laugh and say, “I can see why you’re bigger.” Ignoring when we sat down her Mom did say, ‘eat up, we have so much’ & her brother had already eaten thirds
• A school trip to an amusement park where classmates casually asked about weight limits when I got on the ride. Ignoring that my Mom as the chaperone had offered to drive, & let everyone pick the music being the ‘cool Mom’.

When I went to HS, my foundation was ‘never good enough’ ‘always trying’ ‘change yourself’- I hoped that new kids would change everything, I believed variety would dilute cruelty.

Mind you, this was the height of Hot Topic, self-expression with clothing, visible armor- but the shirts with clever sayings, or us both being in the same band swag, didn’t save me.

I still remember my favorite shirt: a black tank top with flames that read On Fire. What followed were the punchlines: “Hot? Not.”

At home, food was a language.

I came from an Italian-Polish family & a Mexican family, both rooted in love, providing, & not enforcing portion control. “Eat, eat” wasn’t pressure. It was pride. It meant our families were grateful they could provide.

The pantry was full. Snacks were gifts. You didn’t waste food.

Even when eating out came with limits—“you can order something $4.99 or less”—it was still pride. We knew we were lucky to go out.

& meanwhile, we weren’t sitting still. We were always moving—climbing, running, playing sports, inventing games, living fully in our bodies without thinking about them.

No one talked about portions. Or “fueling” versus “over-fueling.” Or genetics. Or what bodies were “supposed” to look like. At home, we just lived in the moments that brought us joy.

So, I gained weight.
& I never saw the problem; my Mom still bought me designer clothes from Express, Hot Topic, Victoria’s Secret. I wore the labels, I had ‘the styles’, but when I went to school, I was fat.

I was stripped of all context of inclusion,

“hey we have the same shirt!”

“No, we don’t yours is fatter.”

I was misunderstood, there was no way to rewrite my narrative unless I changed what I looked like.

We did all the 90s fads: I ate nothing but Lean Cuisine, Slim Fast, Atkins- we did the workout videos, Chuck Norris’ home gym, my Mom read once to buy clothes a size smaller as a goal- & I got stuck wearing pjs to school when nothing fit, I fasted, I did ‘dieting bets’, I learned to fixate fixate fixate.

In 9th grade, my classmates gave me a new name: Meatball

The rolling meatball, watch out, here she comes.

Let me pause & fill in some imagery- if the average ‘perfect kid’ was described as 100lbs size 4-6, I was maybe 130 size 8-10. I didn’t shop specialty stores, as I said our mall carried my size, but different made me “the star” the leading lady of a fake documentary they started about me. They mocked watching me, journaling my every move, commenting on what I ate.

Once I became Meatball, there was no creativity left. Just the same joke on repeat.

Girls pretending to be my friend, offering to ‘share clothes’, boys pretending to date me, prank phone calls, hiding my things just to watch me walk across the room to get them.

I wanted to quit school.

I took the friendships I could get. I felt safest in collective happiness. I signed up for clubs, I silenced myself in the spaces where I could focus on an activity.

When I left for college, I followed the same strategy. I offered something to belong, I chose spaces where ‘everyone was included’ not giving chance to ‘being picked or ignored’.

I thought I had close friends then, & to be far, I have some great memories, but I do see the patterns.

I always did want they wanted. I was grateful to just be included. I remember being the one who texted first, nervously checking, inviting, asking, following up. & if I didn’t reach out, I was rarely included.

I never fully arriving as myself. I never felt at home in my own skin. I wore a hoodie majority of the time- I conformed with a nervousness.

My ED began slowly- avoidance:

• I never reached for things I wanted.
• I avoided choosing where we ate.
• If they didn’t mention going to lunch or dinner, I ate quietly in my dorm pretending, “oh yeah, I wasn’t going to go either.”
• I offered to buy food for others—snacks, meals, whatever they wanted, so it looked like I was giving, not eating.

Later in life, I met bigger people who were deeply loved, surrounded by friends who embraced them without caveats. I remember feeling genuinely confused by it. How does that happen? What’s so great about them? That confusion showed me how deeply flawed my foundation was.

When cruelty is your first community, it lingers. Years later, I realized I was constantly circling the same question: Am I good enough?

Over time, my body changed. I lost weight naturally.
Then I lost a significant amount of weight after getting an unknown virus.
But the weight loss wasn’t my eventual ‘aha moment’- it was being in grad school meeting people who didn’t give a fuck about weight. Finally meeting people who didn’t notice looks first, but bonded because of mutual enjoyment.

I enjoyed running with my roommate- she didn’t care how fast or slow- we just went out every Sunday & made it our thing.

I enjoyed cooking with her in moderation, understanding our eating habits, making it our own little home together, her being mindful.

I enjoyed my Quidditch team, who never name called, just focused on my creativity, made sure I knew about every invite (even as someone who lived off-campus), & checked in on me.

I enjoyed learning moderation, understanding eating habits, & the quiet discipline/support that came from my medical team while being sick.

Somewhere in that process, I became a different version of myself.

It didn’t hurt that I met my husband during that time. & he met the version of me who endured illness, held onto real friendships, & trusted her own strength felt confident enough to flirt.

Different from my first dating experience—rooted in we live in the same town, you’re the only one asking, this is all I can get—our relationship came from mutual enjoyment. From being chosen, “want to be my doubles partner?” & choosing back, “want to grab drinks?”

We shared interests, humor, & desire.

For a while, everything felt stable, like I had finally outrun the version of me I was taught to hate.

But doubt was my foundation. I had spent so long being identified by my weight that I never fully believed people were there for me, not for what I provided. I had never felt beautiful in a relationship whether friendship or romantic that felt freely chosen. I wasn’t the best version of myself because I didn’t believe I was allowed to be.

So when I finally became that version later in life—after illness, after a long recovery, with the help of an incredible roommate-turned-best-friend who helped me rebuild my strength, with the love of a quiet volleyball partner who wanted to be with me off the court, & a new sense of self—I clung to it tightly.

Too tightly.

& that’s when my eating disorder really developed.

Because I thought if I lost her, I’d lose everything. Not out of vanity, but out of fear. Fear of losing what finally felt safe & whole.

I’m ready to be clear about my ED Monster.

At first, it was a quiet whisper, “they don’t know the younger, bigger you”.

& at first that was a positive, because that person wasn’t truly me.

But then the whisper got louder, “if they meet her, they won’t like her, nobody liked her.”

Fear that the version of myself I had fought to become could slip away.

I began to fear slipping away, and to me, slipping away meant gaining weight.

Trigger Warning: This story includes discussions of eating disorders, body image, & weight struggles. Please read only if it feels safe for you.

When I was sick, I had learned moderation.
But when fear kicked in, moderation became meticulous calculation.

I counted everything I ate. I developed strict rules around quantity, timing, & ‘worth it foods’.

Food had to be justified. Enjoyment had to be earned. Eating required discipline earlier in the day. Workout sessions. Recording calories burned versus calories eaten. Ugh, math. I became hyper-controlled.

I thought my habits were healthy- until I realized I organized my day around food, movement, & measurement. My concept around ‘gym rat’ or ‘healthy eater’ was shattered by my realization, & an admission it wasn’t balanced. It was fear dressed up in obsession.

I recognized I had an ED Monster invisibly following me- canceling plans when food was added- pushing me for one more hour-ignoring hunger signals-ignoring fatigued muscles-focused on numbers because numbers felt like conformity.

Remember, we never truly wore the same shirt, unless we were the same size.

& when I became ashamed, when I caught myself making excuses, I went to find support.
I went to my first support group. I said something like, “I think I have an eating disorder, but it doesn’t feel like ‘the normal ones’.

I learned about behaviors without judgement. I learned my diagnosed for something similar to RED-S syndrome-ish. 

& over time, I learned how to ask my ED monster to step away from the table, to loosen its grip, to quiet its voice, to give me some space again. I learned to love myself, dress myself, & be beautiful.

Not all at once. But enough to breathe. & for the longest time, I was ok.

Then, I decided to have children. 

Then I developed a chronic auto immune illness.

Then my ED Monster moved back in.

So, that’s my history. & here’s my current truth: I have an eating disorder.

I have a chosen support family, who I can cry to weekly, celebrate with weekly, & tell me they love me weekly.

I have a frustration, over what a mean-ass group of kid decided about my worth years ago.

I have an apology, that if our activities involve food, I may cancel or change plans. If I wake up with a flare-up, I feel awful taking up space.

I know, I am beautifully creative inside. I looked damn good in my wedding dress to a person who loves me for my stupid jokes. & this body helped me make two friggin’ fantastic children.

But like my clouds, the ED Monster rolls in.

My family knows them. We know when it’s okay they invited themselves in. We don’t see them as an enemy, but a shadow I recognize. But I also still exist- in my body, in my life.

Resources & Support

If this story resonated with you, you are not alone—& support is available:

• National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA)
  Helpline: (800) 931-2237
  Offers screening tools, resources, and treatment options.
• Eating Recovery Center (ERC)
  A 12-step program with free meetings (virtual & in-person).
• Pathlight Mood & Anxiety Center
  Offers virtual and in-person treatment programs for eating disorders, mood, and anxiety, including structured support options.
• Crisis Text Line
  Text HOME to 741741 (U.S.)
  Free, 24/7 support if you’re in emotional distress.