Asking for Help: The Moment I Knew I Couldn’t Do This Alone

By the time I finally entered therapy, I already knew what my eating disorder represented. I had read all the books. I had analyzed myself to death. I understood that my eating disorder was never really about food. It never is.

It was my coping mechanism.
Restrictive eating? That meant I was starving my feelings away.
Bingeing? That meant I was burying emotions I didn’t want to face.
Purging? That was me trying to expel the feelings entirely. I wasn’t just throwing up food—I was throwing up shame, grief, anger, fear. I was chasing total emotional numbness.

But even with all that insight, all that self-awareness, I still couldn’t stop.

There were moments when I wanted to recover. But if I’m being honest, there were also moments when I was deeply grateful for my disorder. I was terrified of what life would be like without it. I thought that if I let it go, I’d be left to face every painful emotion I had spent years trying to avoid. I didn’t believe I had the strength to survive those feelings. I was convinced they would crush me.

Deciding to seek help for my eating disorder was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.

I had flirted with the idea for a long time. But it wasn’t until I started scaring myself that I finally made the decision.

I had been scaring my friends and family for years, but I always brushed them off. I told myself they were overreacting. I told myself I was in control. Spoiler: I wasn’t. The truth is, my eating disorder controlled me—and I was the last one to admit it.

My purging episodes were getting worse. I would pass out by the toilet. The room would spin, and I would lose all sense of where I was. My vision would blur. Everything felt foggy, like I was outside of my body. I’d crawl to my bedroom on hands and knees, dragging myself into bed before blacking out under the covers.

I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, but this was something else. This wasn’t drama. This was real. This was dangerous. And for the first time, I was scared.

I didn’t mean to break down in my gynecologist’s office. All he did was ask how I was doing—and I crumbled. The words came pouring out: how I was starving myself, how I’d binge and purge, how I kept trying to stop and couldn’t.

That moment changed my life.

After examining me, he quietly left the room. A few minutes later, I heard him in the hallway on the phone, calling the eating disorder treatment center I eventually went to. He came back in and told me they had an appointment for me next week. I could fill out the intake paperwork and a questionnaire before the visit to help them create a personalized treatment plan for eating disorder recovery.

I was overwhelmed with two conflicting emotions: fear and hope.

I was terrified at the thought of giving up the one thing that had been with me for so long. My constant companion. My crutch. How would I function without it? What would life look like without bingeing, purging, or restricting? Part of me said, “You’ll never make it.” But the other part—the one I hadn’t heard from in a while—whispered, “Maybe you can.”

Asking for help with an eating disorder is scary. Really scary. So many of us have lived in shame for years, convinced we don’t deserve support. That other people deserve to heal, but we don’t.

Let me tell you: you do deserve help. You are not beyond saving. You don’t have to do this alone.

Recovery from bulimia, anorexia, or any disordered eating is possible—but it starts with reaching out.

When Recovery Gets Hard: My Biggest Test Yet

There will be many moments in eating disorder recovery when things get incredibly tough. These moments are tests—and yes, you will be tested. So it’s important to be prepared for when life throws you a curveball.

For me, my first real test came about two years into my recovery journey. My mom suffered a sudden brain aneurysm. If I hadn’t been home to call 911, she wouldn’t have survived. Thankfully, I was there. She was rushed to the hospital, and after several tests, the doctors confirmed it was a brain aneurysm. They couldn’t operate right away; they had to stabilize her first. Then came the words no one ever wants to hear: “There’s only a 50% chance she’ll make it.”

Take a wild guess how I wanted to cope.

All I could think about was cheesecake—and finding a bathroom. I didn’t want to feel the fear, the helplessness, the grief, the unknown. I wanted to check out. I wanted to be numb. That’s what my eating disorder used to offer me—an escape.

But deep down, I knew the truth: relapsing wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t help me, and it definitely wouldn’t help my mom. It wouldn’t make the fear go away. The pain would still be there after the numbness faded, and she would still be in the ICU fighting for her life.

So, what did I do instead?

I prayed. Hard. I prayed to God. I prayed to my dad who passed away when I was just three. I begged them both for strength, for peace, and to protect my mom. And I cried. A lot. Sometimes I cried myself to sleep. But I didn’t isolate. I didn’t stop eating. I ate—mindfully. Slowly. I was very intentional about not eating too fast, because I could feel the urge to binge creeping in. I made sure I didn’t get too hungry. I stayed connected to myself. I practiced every single coping skill I had learned in recovery.

I took care of myself.

And I’m so grateful to say that we both made it through that terrifying time. My mom survived. I stayed in recovery. That season of life tested me in every way imaginable. It was the most difficult challenge I’ve ever faced during my early eating disorder recovery, but I made it through without going back.

If you’re struggling to stay on track when life gets hard, I see you. Please know this: You can get through hard things without going back to old behaviors. Let yourself feel. Reach out for support. Use your tools. You are stronger than the urge to numb.

much love, kelly

You Will Never Win With an Eating Disorder—Ever

Let me be blunt:
You will never win with an eating disorder. Not ever.

An eating disorder is a war inside your own mind—and it’s one that cannot be won.

No matter how thin you get, it will never be enough to silence that cruel, relentless voice in your head. That voice will keep screaming at you that you’re not thin enough, not disciplined enough, not good enough. You could weigh zero pounds, and it would still call you fat, disgusting, worthless.

That’s not wellness. That’s hell. A living hell.

And the worst part?
You start to believe it. Every. Single. Word.

That eating disorder voice brainwashes you. It manipulates you into thinking it’s your only friend. But the truth is—it’s your worst enemy in disguise. It thrives on punishing you. And it won’t stop until you decide to stop listening.

Sounds simple, right?
It’s not. I know.

I remember breaking down while telling my mom about it. I told her how the voice said I was a pig, that I didn’t deserve food, that I was worthless. Through tears, she said, “Just tell the voice to shut the hell up.”

I cried harder.
“I can’t.”

Because deep down, I thought that voice was protecting me. Twisted as it sounds, I thought it was my ally. It promised me happiness, love, and a beautiful life—but only if I was thin enough. Only if I earned it.

Here’s the painful truth about eating disorders:
You will never be thin enough to get the life it promises.
Not ever.

That “friend” of yours? It’s playing a game you’ll never win. It dangles the carrot—thinness, worthiness, acceptance—just out of reach. Every time you think you’re close, it yanks it away, laughing:
“Did you really think you deserved that? Look at you. You’re disgusting.”

That’s the voice I listened to for years.

And when I finally started my recovery journey, ohhh it got mad.
“They’re going to make you fat.”
“They’re lying to you.”
“I’m the only one who tells the truth.”

But I kept going.
I let it scream in the background. I didn’t always win—I slipped sometimes—but I didn’t give up. I forgave myself, picked myself up, and kept moving forward.

Little by little, the voice lost its power.

It didn’t happen overnight. It took years. And even now, during stressful times, it likes to check in. But I don’t entertain it. I hear the knock at the door and politely say, “No thanks. Not today. We don’t do that anymore.”

That voice is no longer welcome in my life.
And trust me—it doesn’t belong in yours either.

You deserve peace. You deserve freedom. You deserve a full, beautiful life without that voice tearing you down.

If you’re stuck in the cycle of disordered eating and self-hate, please know this:
Recovery is real. Recovery is worth it. And most importantly—recovery is possible.

much love, kelly

You Deserve Recovery—And You Can Recover

If you want recovery to stick, there are two things you have to believe:

1. You deserve recovery.

2. You can recover.

Here’s the truth though—I didn’t believe either of those when I first started.

In the beginning, I wasn’t really trying to recover. I was hoping I could somehow manage my eating disorder. Keep it tucked away, just out of sight. Something I could pull out when life felt overwhelming, then quietly pack away again when I didn’t need it.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work that way.

If you truly want to heal, you have to let it go. All of it.
No part-time recovery. No “just in case” behaviors.
It’s all or nothing.

What helped me was having a treatment team that believed in me before I could believe in myself. They were in my corner from the start—cheering me on, being real about how hard it would be, but reminding me constantly that I could do it.

They also made something really clear: recovery was in my hands. They could guide me, support me, offer tools—but the heavy lifting? That was mine to carry.

And little by little, I started to believe them.

I began thinking: Yeah… maybe I can do this. Maybe I can beat this.
And eventually: I will recover. I will be one of the ones who makes it.

Right now, maybe you don’t believe you can recover. That’s okay.
Recovery can feel overwhelming—especially at the beginning.

But hear me when I say this:
I believe in you.

I believe in your resilience.
I believe in your strength.
I believe that every time you fall, you will rise again.

You are not stuck. You are not broken. You are in the middle of becoming something stronger, freer, and more alive than ever before.

You weren’t put on this planet to live a miserable, painful life.
You were born to live a life full of joy, meaning, and peace.

Don’t let this eating disorder steal that from you.
You are worth more. So much more.

I’ve got faith in you. One day, you will too.

With love, kelly