I Knew I Was Struggling With an Eating Disorder—But I Didn’t Think I Deserved Help

I knew I was sick.
Had known for a while, honestly.

I also knew I needed help. But if I’m being real, I didn’t really want it.
Didn’t think I deserved it either.

If you’re in recovery—or even just thinking about it—you probably know that feeling. That sense of shame, unworthiness, hopelessness. Like maybe everyone else deserves healing, but not you.

One night, during a pretty dark moment, I found myself on an eating disorder recovery website. I was scrolling through the survivor’s wall—where people who had made it through the worst shared messages of hope for those still in the thick of it.

And one sentence stopped me in my tracks.

I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like this:

“The fact that I’m still alive means God hasn’t given up on me.”

That line hit me hard.
I started crying—like, ugly crying. It brought me to my knees. I’m not even religious, but it felt like something deep in my soul woke up. A moment of truth. A spiritual shift.

I thought about all the times I could have died. The times I wanted to. The nights I begged for it. The risks I took with food restriction, bingeing, purging, overexercising—pushing my body way past its limits.

But I was still here. Alive.
Even though I didn’t want to be. Even though I felt like I didn’t matter.

That moment didn’t magically fix everything. I didn’t leap into recovery the next day. But something inside me shifted. It planted a seed.

A few months later, I found myself crying in my doctor’s office, finally admitting I couldn’t stop starving and purging. That I needed help. That I wanted to live—even if I didn’t know how yet.

Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for me.
Maybe I wasn’t hopeless after all.
Maybe I was still here for a reason.

And now I want to say the same thing to you:

You are still alive because God (or the Universe, or something greater) hasn’t given up on you.

So please—don’t give up on yourself either.

much love, kelly