More, Please

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Introduction

I'm sitting on the floor of my bathroom, surrounded by empty food wrappers, a familiar heaviness in my stomach matched only by the weight in my chest. The clock reads 2:37 AM. Hours earlier, I had promised myself "just one cookie" before the familiar fog descended and I found myself in this position again—alone with my shame and the remains of what most would consider enough food for a family dinner. This moment, repeated countless times throughout my life, has been both my prison and, strangely, my comfort. Many of us have complex relationships with food, but for those who experience binge eating disorder, food becomes both enemy and refuge—a source of immense pleasure followed by crushing guilt. This journey explores the intricate connections between our bodies, our sense of self, and the food we consume. Through personal stories, expert insights, and hard-won wisdom, we'll navigate the difficult terrain of disordered eating and discover pathways toward healing that don't require perfection, just compassion and understanding. Whether you recognize yourself in these pages or seek to understand someone you love, you'll find that recovery isn't a destination but a practice—one built on self-forgiveness, community support, and rediscovering the simple joy that food was always meant to bring.

Chapter 1: The Beginning of Hunger: Childhood and Family

My earliest food memory takes place in my grandmother's kitchen. I'm six years old, watching her hands—veined and spotted with age—knead dough for Sunday dinner rolls. She slips me a piece of raw dough, our secret indulgence. "A little taste never hurt anyone," she whispers, her eyes twinkling. This memory stands in stark contrast to my mother's anxious monitoring of my portions at home, her constant commentary about my "baby fat" that would surely disappear if I just showed "a little self-control." These contradictory messages about food became the backdrop of my childhood. At home, meals were accompanied by calorie counts and diet talk. My mother would scrutinize her plate, sighing about needing to lose ten pounds, while my father ate heartily, praising my mother's cooking while telling me to "clean my plate" because "children are starving in Africa." Meanwhile, visits to my grandparents meant abundance—tables groaning under the weight of comfort foods, second helpings encouraged, and love expressed through the offering of just one more slice of pie. By age ten, I knew how many calories were in an apple versus a cookie. I learned to eat quickly when allowed treats, developing a habit of secret eating that would follow me for decades. When my mother found candy wrappers hidden in my desk drawer, her disappointment felt crushing. "I'm just worried about your health," she'd say, but I heard something different: I was failing at being the daughter she wanted, and food was the evidence. School complicated matters further. Lunchtime became a social minefield where the contents of your lunchbox could determine your status. My mother's health-conscious selections—whole grain sandwiches and carrot sticks—made me an easy target. The day I traded my entire lunch for a friend's Hostess cupcake was the day I discovered how food could buy acceptance, however fleeting. By thirteen, I was secretly saving my allowance to buy snacks that I would eat alone in my bedroom, the door locked, the evidence meticulously disposed of. This pattern—restriction followed by rebellion followed by shame—became the rhythm of my relationship with food. It wasn't about hunger or fullness; it was about control, comfort, and coping with emotions I didn't have names for yet. Family dynamics shape our earliest understanding of food and our bodies. For many who struggle with disordered eating, these childhood lessons become deeply embedded frameworks that persist long after we've left home. The contradiction between food as love and food as danger creates a cognitive dissonance that can take years to reconcile—a journey that begins not with changing how we eat, but with understanding why we eat the way we do.

Chapter 2: Fear and Control: Adolescent Food Struggles

High school brought a new level of awareness about my body and how it compared to others. In the locker room before gym class, I learned to change quickly, eyes down, acutely conscious of the differences between my developing curves and the willowy frames of the popular girls. It was Jessica, the track star with seemingly endless legs and a flat stomach, who first introduced me to diet pills. "They suppress your appetite," she explained matter-of-factly as she slipped me two small blue tablets during lunch period. "You won't even want dinner." She was right. That night, I pushed food around my plate while my heart raced uncomfortably. My mother noticed but seemed pleased by my newfound "self-control." The pills became my secret weapon, a way to finally master the hunger that had always felt like my enemy. For three months, I existed on energy drinks, celery sticks, and the occasional apple. I lost twenty pounds and gained something that felt like power. The compliments came flooding in. Teachers who had never noticed me before commented on how "healthy" I looked. Friends asked for my "secret." Boys who had previously looked through me suddenly saw me. Each positive reinforcement strengthened my resolve—this temporary discomfort was worth the social currency it purchased. I didn't recognize that what I thought was control was actually its opposite: a desperate attempt to manage overwhelming fear. Then came the fainting episode during a chemistry lab. The room had started spinning, voices becoming distant, and then darkness. I woke to concerned faces and the school nurse asking questions I didn't want to answer. My parents were called. The pills were discovered. The system I had carefully constructed came crashing down, replaced by doctor's appointments, concerned counselors, and my mother's tearful confusion about how she had missed the signs. The nutritionist they sent me to spoke about "balanced meals" and "healthy relationships with food," concepts that seemed impossibly abstract. How could I explain that food wasn't just food to me anymore? It had become a complex language through which I expressed everything I couldn't say directly—my insecurities, my desire to be seen, my need for control in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. Adolescence often intensifies our relationship with food and body image, transforming natural hunger into something frightening that must be conquered. For many, this marks the beginning of disordered patterns that can persist for decades. The illusion of control that comes with restriction becomes addictive, offering temporary relief from deeper anxieties about identity, acceptance, and self-worth. Yet this pattern eventually reveals itself as a prison rather than liberation—one built of our own fears rather than true self-determination.

Chapter 3: Losing Myself: College and Early Adulthood

Freshman year of college arrived with the dreaded "freshman fifteen" warnings from well-meaning relatives. I arrived on campus armed with diet plans, exercise schedules, and a fierce determination to avoid this supposed inevitability. My roommate Sarah noticed my rituals immediately—the careful food measuring, the logging of every calorie, the rigid exercise regimen regardless of weather or workload. "You know," she said one night as I declined another invitation to the dining hall, "food is supposed to be fun sometimes." Fun was precisely what I couldn't allow food to be. Fun meant losing control, and control had become my North Star. But college life has a way of dismantling even the most carefully constructed systems. Late-night study sessions, social gatherings centered around pizza and beer, stress-filled exam periods—all challenged my rigid rules. The first time I binged was after failing a calculus midterm. Alone in my dorm room, I consumed an entire package of Oreos, a family-size bag of chips, and three vending machine candy bars in succession. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the wave of shame that followed. I promised myself it was a one-time lapse, but the cycle had begun. Restriction would lead to inevitable binges, followed by renewed vows of control, creating a pendulum that swung more wildly with each oscillation. My weight fluctuated, but more concerning was how my sense of self became entirely wrapped up in this pattern. Good days were defined by "perfect" eating; bad days were marked by failures of willpower. Graduate school only intensified these patterns. The stress of deadlines, teaching responsibilities, and uncertain career prospects created the perfect environment for my disorder to flourish. I became skilled at presenting a composed exterior while chaos reigned inside. Colleagues saw a dedicated student; they didn't see the person who could demolish an entire pizza alone in her apartment at 1 AM, tears streaming down her face, wondering how she had lost control again. Dating during this period was particularly challenging. I developed elaborate strategies—eating before dates so I could order "lightly" at dinner, claiming food allergies to avoid certain restaurants, scheduling meetings for coffee rather than meals. One relationship ended when my boyfriend walked in on me hiding in his bathroom, eating leftover birthday cake directly from the container. "I don't understand why you couldn't just have a slice in front of everyone," he said. I didn't know how to explain that the woman who could enjoy a normal piece of cake in public simply wasn't me. The years between adolescence and full adulthood often entrench disordered eating patterns rather than resolving them. The increased independence of this period can remove external guardrails while adding new stressors. For many, eating disorders become identity-defining, making recovery seem not just difficult but almost existentially threatening. The question becomes not just "How do I change my eating?" but "Who would I be without this struggle?" Finding an answer requires rediscovering parts of ourselves that existed before food became our primary battlefield.

Chapter 4: Hope and Relapse: Finding Community

The email invitation to join the binge eating support group sat in my inbox for three days before I found the courage to open it. My therapist had suggested it, gently but persistently, for months. "You don't have to do this alone," she kept saying, but alone was exactly how I'd managed my relationship with food for fifteen years. The thought of sitting in a circle, exposing my deepest shame to strangers, made my stomach clench with anxiety. The church basement where the group met was exactly as I had imagined—fluorescent lighting, folding chairs arranged in a circle, a table with lukewarm coffee and, ironically, cookies. What I hadn't imagined was the wave of recognition that would wash over me as others shared their stories. Lisa, a corporate lawyer, described hiding in her car to eat fast food before going home to prepare a "proper" dinner for her family. Michael, a high school teacher, talked about the exhaustion of constantly calculating and recalculating what he was "allowed" to eat. Their words could have been my own. For the first time, I spoke my truth aloud: "I don't remember what it feels like to be hungry or full anymore. I only know restriction or excess." The act of saying these words without being met with judgment or advice was revolutionary. No one tried to fix me with diet suggestions or platitudes about willpower. Instead, there were nods of understanding and murmurs of recognition. I had found my people—the ones who understood the battlefield that eating had become. Progress wasn't linear. There were weeks when I felt hopeful, when I could eat a meal without mental calculations, when food was just food. Then would come the triggers—a stressful work project, a comment about my appearance, a holiday gathering—and I would find myself back in the familiar cycle. The difference now was that I had somewhere to bring these experiences, people who wouldn't be shocked or disappointed by my struggles. Through the group, I learned practical strategies—meal planning that focused on satisfaction rather than restriction, mindfulness techniques for staying present during eating, ways to identify emotional triggers before they led to binges. But more valuable was the gradual understanding that recovery wasn't about achieving perfect eating habits. It was about developing compassion for myself in all states—not just when I was "being good." Finding community transforms the recovery journey from a solitary struggle to a shared expedition. While each person's path is unique, the emotional landscape of disordered eating contains universal landmarks that others can help us navigate. The shame that thrives in isolation begins to dissolve when reflected in the understanding eyes of others. Recovery becomes possible not because we finally find the perfect solution, but because we learn we are worthy of healing even when we stumble along the way.

Chapter 5: Accepting My Body: Weight Gain and Identity

The number on the scale was higher than it had been in years. I stood in my bathroom, the morning light harsh and unforgiving, staring at the digital readout with a mixture of fear and resignation. Six months into my recovery program, I had been working diligently on eating regular meals, not compensating for binges with restriction, and attempting to make peace with my hunger. The physical result of this emotional work was an additional twenty pounds on my frame. My therapist had warned me this might happen. "Your body has been through years of feast and famine," she explained. "It needs time to trust that food will be consistently available." Intellectually, I understood, but emotionally, I felt betrayed. Wasn't recovery supposed to make everything better? Instead, my clothes were tight, my body unfamiliar, and each morning brought the challenge of facing a reflection I didn't recognize. Shopping for new clothes became a dreaded necessity. In the department store dressing room, under unforgiving lights, I tried on a size larger than I'd worn since high school. The saleswoman, seeing my hesitation, offered well-meaning encouragement: "Those jeans look great on you! They really flatter your curves." Curves. A word I had spent decades avoiding, now attached to my body by a complete stranger. I bought the jeans and cried in my car afterward, unsure whether from grief or relief. The question of identity became unavoidable. Who was I if not the person constantly pursuing thinness? What would fill the mental space previously occupied by calorie counting and body criticism? Who would I become if I truly accepted this body—not as a temporary state to be endured until I could safely restrict again, but as my home? These questions felt more terrifying than any binge or diet had ever been. Slowly, I began discovering answers. I rediscovered old interests that had been pushed aside while food dominated my attention. I signed up for a pottery class I'd always been curious about. I accepted dinner invitations without pre-planning my order or checking if the restaurant's menu was online. I bought a swimming suit and actually went swimming, feeling the water against my skin instead of worrying about who might be looking at my thighs. The journey toward body acceptance reveals how deeply our sense of self can become entangled with size and shape. For many recovering from disordered eating, weight changes—whether gains or losses—trigger profound identity questions. This phase of healing requires expanding our self-definition beyond the physical, reconnecting with values and passions that exist independent of appearance. True recovery isn't about reaching a particular weight or achieving a specific relationship with food; it's about reclaiming the fullness of a life previously narrowed by obsession.

Chapter 6: Moving Forward: Exercise and Joyful Movement

My relationship with exercise had always been punitive—a mathematical equation where workouts directly offset food consumption. Run five miles, earn breakfast. Thirty minutes on the elliptical, permission to eat dinner. But as part of my recovery, my therapist challenged me to try something radical: moving my body for enjoyment rather than compensation. The concept seemed almost blasphemous. Exercise without counting calories burned? Movement without punishment? When she suggested I make a list of physical activities I might actually enjoy, my mind went blank. After some gentle prompting, childhood memories surfaced—swimming in the lake during summer vacations, hiking with my father in the mountains, dancing wildly in my bedroom to favorite songs. None of these had ever counted as "real exercise" in my disordered mindset. My first attempt at joyful movement was a disaster. I signed up for a dance class, determined to recapture that childhood freedom. Instead, I spent the entire hour acutely aware of my reflection in the studio mirrors, comparing my body to those of other participants, calculating how long I would need to dance to burn off lunch. I left feeling defeated, convinced that exercise would always be entangled with my disorder. Then came the invitation from my support group friend Elena to join her kayaking on the nearby river. "No fitness trackers allowed," she warned with a smile. Out on the water, something unexpected happened. With no mirrors, no metrics to track, and the simple physical demands of paddling, I found myself fully present in my body perhaps for the first time in decades. I noticed the strength in my arms, the way my core stabilized each stroke, the sun warming my skin. For two hours, I existed without evaluating or criticizing my physical self. This became my new template for movement—activities that connected me to the world rather than isolating me in measurement and comparison. Hiking with friends where conversation, not calorie burn, was the point. Gentle yoga classes that emphasized sensation over perfection. Dancing in my living room just because music made my body want to move. The paradox was striking: the less I focused on exercise as a weight management tool, the more consistently I engaged in physical activity. The transition from punitive exercise to joyful movement represents a fundamental shift in our relationship with our bodies—from adversaries to allies. This aspect of recovery challenges us to uncouple physical activity from weight control and reconnect it to pleasure, capability, and engagement with the world. When movement becomes an expression of what our bodies can do rather than a correction for what they are, we open the door to sustainable physical practices that enhance rather than diminish our lives.

Chapter 7: Tasting Life: Reclaiming Food's Pleasure

The elaborate dinner spread before me represented months of recovery work. I had prepared my grandmother's lasagna recipe—rich with cheese, unapologetically indulgent—for friends coming to my home. In the past, hosting would have triggered days of anxiety: restricting beforehand to "make room" for the meal, obsessing over having "safe" options available, planning how to avoid actually eating while serving others. Tonight was different. I had prepared this meal not as a test or challenge, but as an act of connection and creativity. When my friends arrived, bringing wine and dessert contributions, I noticed the absence of my usual mental calculations. Instead, I felt present—aware of the comfortable buzz of conversation, the warmth of my kitchen, the complex aromas of the meal we were about to share. When we finally sat down to eat, I served myself a moderate portion, neither restrictive nor excessive, and then did something that would have been impossible years earlier: I tasted the food. Really tasted it. The complex flavors—tangy tomato, creamy ricotta, earthy herbs—registered fully on my palate. I participated in the dinner conversation without the usual internal monologue about what I was or wasn't allowing myself to eat. When someone complimented the meal, I accepted it without deflection. When dessert was served—a chocolate cake brought by a friend—I had a slice without mental negotiation, experiencing the pleasure without assigning moral value to my choice. This transformation hadn't happened overnight. It had begun with structured eating plans from my nutritionist—regular meals and snacks regardless of hunger, explicit permission for previously forbidden foods. The process felt mechanical at first, even terrifying. Each meal was a conscious decision to challenge years of rigid rules. There were setbacks—days when anxiety overwhelmed me, when old patterns reasserted themselves, when food once again became the enemy. Slowly, though, taste returned. Not just the physical sensation, but the emotional capacity to experience pleasure without immediate punishment. I rediscovered favorite foods I had denied myself for years. I learned that satisfaction—not just fullness—was a legitimate goal in eating. Most surprisingly, I found that when all foods became permissible, the urgency around previously forbidden items gradually diminished. The chocolate I could have whenever I wanted didn't hold the same irresistible power as the chocolate I was never allowed. Reclaiming the pleasure of eating marks a significant milestone in recovery from disordered eating. This phase requires dismantling the morality we've attached to food choices and rediscovering the sensory experience of nourishment. The goal isn't perfect intuitive eating or never experiencing food struggles again, but rather developing a relationship with eating that enhances rather than diminishes our capacity for joy. When food becomes just one of life's pleasures—important but not all-consuming—we create space for the full richness of experience that exists beyond the plate.

Summary

Throughout this journey from childhood food messages to adult recovery, a powerful truth emerges: our relationship with food is never simply about nutrition. It's about control and surrender, punishment and pleasure, isolation and connection. The path from disordered eating to recovery isn't about achieving perfect eating habits, but about expanding our capacity for self-compassion while dismantling the rigid rules that once offered the illusion of safety. Recovery means learning to inhabit our bodies as homes rather than projects, and approaching food as nourishment rather than enemy. The stories shared here offer several enduring lessons: First, healing happens in community—whether through formal support groups, trusted friends, or compassionate professionals who help us externalize the critical voices we've internalized. Second, recovery isn't linear but cyclical, with progress measured not by perfect adherence to any plan but by our increasing ability to return to self-care after inevitable setbacks. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the freedom we seek isn't found in controlling our appetites but in making peace with our hunger—both physical and emotional—and trusting that we deserve to be satisfied. By reclaiming our relationship with food and body, we don't just change how we eat; we transform how we live, love, and experience the world around us.

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Emma Specter

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