A Recovery Story

This story is a composite, drawn from the experiences of many people I’ve worked with over the years. It isn’t about being the “sickest,” recovering the fastest, or doing things perfectly. It’s about what recovery often looks like when people are supported and nourished over time.

People often tell me they’re afraid to read recovery stories.

They worry they’ll see someone who was “worse than them,” or someone who recovered quickly, effortlessly, and now eats croissants in Paris without a second thought. They worry they’ll feel behind, broken, or confirmed in the belief that recovery is for other people — not them.

This isn’t that kind of story.

This is a story about how recovery usually looks in real life: slower, messier, supported, and far less dramatic than social media would have you believe.

The starting point

At the beginning, life had become very small.

Food took up most of the mental space — planning it, avoiding it, negotiating with it, feeling guilty about it. Eating felt dangerous. Not eating felt safer, even when it clearly wasn’t working anymore.

There was constant exhaustion, but also a strange sense of control that felt hard to let go of. Anxiety was high. Thinking was rigid. The idea of “recovery” felt vague, overwhelming, and honestly… suspicious.

A common thought was:“I’m not sick enough to need help — but I also can’t keep living like this.”

Family and friends were worried. Conversations about food felt tense. Everyone wanted things to improve, but no one quite knew how to make that happen without making it worse.

Starting recovery (spoiler: it wasn’t inspiring)

Recovery didn’t start with motivation. It started with practicality.

There was no sudden burst of courage or clarity. What helped was structure — predictable meals, clear guidance, and someone else holding the bigger picture when thinking felt foggy.

Eating more didn’t immediately make things easier. In fact, it often made things louder. Anxiety increased. Old rules protested. There were moments of “this was a terrible idea.”

This is the part people don’t post about.

What mattered wasn’t feeling ready — it was being supported through the discomfort. Little by little, nourishment became more consistent, even while fear tagged along for the ride.

The middle bit (where most of the recovery actually happens)

This phase was long. And boring. And frustrating.

Progress wasn’t linear. Some days felt easier; others felt like sliding backwards. There were setbacks, pauses, and moments of wanting to quit because it all felt too hard.

But something subtle was happening underneath.

As nutrition stabilised, thinking slowly became less rigid. Decisions took slightly less effort. Anxiety spikes didn’t last quite as long. Conversations widened beyond food.

Recovery didn’t suddenly feel good — it started to feel possible.

There was also grief here. Letting go of rules meant facing feelings that had been numbed for a long time. That part was real, and it mattered. But it didn’t mean recovery was wrong — it meant the nervous system was waking back up.

What changed over time

No one woke up one morning “fixed.”

What changed was capacity.

There was more mental space. More flexibility. More tolerance for uncertainty. Food stopped being the main event of every day. Life started creeping back in — work, relationships, interests, humour.

And yes, humour came back. That dry, self-aware ability to notice how strange some eating disorder logic actually was. (A very good sign, clinically.)

Recovery didn’t remove fear completely. It reduced how much power fear had.

The outcome (the part people actually want to know)

Recovery didn’t require being brave every day.It required being nourished enough for the brain to change.

With consistent support and adequate nutrition:

• Anxiety reduced

• Thinking became clearer

• Eating felt less threatening

• Life expanded

Recovery became less about “fighting” an eating disorder and more about having enough brain capacity to choose something different.

And importantly — recovery didn’t end. It continued, quietly, in the background of a fuller life.

If you’re reading this and wondering…

If you’re scared to start recovery, that makes sense. Fear is part of the illness — not a sign that recovery isn’t right for you.

You don’t need to feel ready.You don’t need to do everything at once.You don’t need to know how the story ends.

You just need enough support to begin.

And yes — recovery really is possible, even when it doesn’t feel that way yet.

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