I was 19 when a friend in college leaned in after lunch and said something that would quietly alter the course of my life:
“If you ever feel too full, just throw up. It’s easy.”

At the time, I didn’t register it as dangerous or alarming. She said it so casually, like it was a tip, like sharing a makeup hack or where to buy jeans that make your waist look smaller.
I tried it once. Then again. Then it stopped being something I did occasionally and slowly became something I depended on.

That’s how bulimia entered my life, not through trauma or a big breakdown, but through a quiet, seductive whisper that promised control in a world where I constantly felt not enough.

For the past 20 years, I have been in a complicated, often abusive relationship with my body, with food, with myself.

There were times when I thought I was “better.” I’d go weeks without purging and start to feel proud, hopeful even. But something, be it stress, heartbreak, weight gain, the wrong comment from the wrong person, would trigger the spiral again.

And there I was, once more in front of the mirror, eyes swollen, cheeks red, a toothbrush or two fingers down my throat.

What makes bulimia so confusing is that society constantly rewards the results of your disorder.
People applaud you for being thin.
They ask you how you stay in shape, what you eat (or don’t).
They call you “disciplined,” “fit,” even “inspiring.”
Meanwhile, you’re battling shame, guilt, and exhaustion behind closed doors, wondering how something that feels so awful can make you look so “good.”

I’ve spent countless hours obsessing over what I ate, when I ate it, how I could erase it. I’ve cried in fitting rooms. I’ve cancelled plans. I’ve punished my body with workouts, restricted entire food groups, and bought the same pair of jeans in two sizes smaller, hoping they’d fit one day. I’ve looked in the mirror and hated what I saw, no matter how small I got.

What no one tells you is that eating disorders aren’t just about food or weight. They’re about control, self-worth, and shame. And they don’t just go away. Healing is not a switch you flip. It’s slow. Sometimes unbearably slow.

Some days, I still feel like I’m walking through a minefield of old habits, internalized beauty standards, and warped self-image. But I also know now that healing doesn’t mean perfection. It means choosing to stay. Choosing to fight. Choosing to eat the meal and not punish myself for it. Choosing to rest. Choosing to look at my body and say: You’re doing your best, and that’s enough.

It’s taken me 20 years to start speaking about this. I used to feel ashamed. I still do, some days. But I’m realizing that silence only feeds the stigma. And if this post finds someone who is still hiding in their shame, I want them to know: you are not alone.

There’s nothing glamorous about bulimia. It’s not a phase. It’s not a weight-loss plan. It’s a mental health issue.
And recovery isn’t linear, but it is possible.

I’m still in it. I’m still learning how to be gentle with myself.
And I’m still trying to unlearn the lies the mirror told me for so many years.

But today, I’m choosing truth over shame.
And that, to me, is a kind of freedom I never thought I’d get to taste.