Asking for help saved my life - Emily's story

For as long as I can remember, food has felt like a problem I couldn't solve.

I was never someone who loved eating. I was labelled “the fussy one” from a very young age, and that label followed me everywhere. Birthday parties, sleepovers, school trips - all things other children looked forward to - filled me with dread. The thought of eating away from home felt unbearable, and more often than not, my parents would have to collect me early, upset and overwhelmed. I learnt quickly that food made me different, and being different made me feel ashamed.

Even as a young child, I'm talking primary school age, I hated my body. I remember standing in front of mirrors and feeling certain that I was bigger than everyone else, that I took up too much space. I felt lower than my classmates, less worthy somehow, without knowing why. Those thoughts came long before adolescence, before social media, before I had any understanding of eating disorders at all.

I was also such a sporty, energetic child, always busy, always at clubs. Looking back, I can see how early my need to push myself began. I didn’t know when to stop. I remember being part of an athletics club as a pre-teen and refusing to leave sessions until I felt completely depleted. In my mind, that was proof I’d done enough, that I’d earned rest, that I'd done my parents proud. At the time, it was seen as dedication. Now, I recognise it as my eating disorder slowly finding its voice.

One moment that has particularly stayed with me happened in my early teens at school. I was probably about 14 and my friend wasn’t feeling well so she didn’t finish her lunch. Mine, carefully packed and predictable, felt small and unsatisfying by comparison. When she offered me hers - full of foods I'd never usually allow myself to have, I ate it quickly, desperately, as if afraid it would be taken away. Almost immediately, the shame I now know so well flooded in. I felt greedy, out of control, and exposed. I locked myself in a school toilet and cried and cried and cried, convinced I’d done something terrible. That was the first time I purged - trying to undo the eating altogether. I didn’t tell a soul.

At 16, I met my first boyfriend, and he soon became my safe place. He saw how scared I was around food and never mocked or minimised it. He cooked for me, drove long distances to find something I felt able to eat, sat with me while I cried, and defended me when others didn’t understand. Our relationship had ups and downs, trust me, but for the first time, someone knew how hard things were for me. Still, my eating disorder never truly disappeared, it simply adapted to new phases of my life.

As I grew older, periods of stress, change, and loss made my relationship with food more fragile. During particularly difficult times, eating felt impossible, and control became comforting. I reached out for help once, when I was 22, just after my nearly six-year relationship came to an end. Sitting alone in my car, phone shaking in my hand, I called my GP. Admitting I was struggling felt like a weight lifting but I didn’t follow through with the appointment I was offered. Life got busy and other things felt more urgent. This became a familiar pattern - acknowledging I needed help, then putting myself last.

There were moments of freedom, too. It wasn't all bad. Living in New York at 23 showed me glimpses of what life could feel like without constant fear. I laughed more, I felt lighter, but underneath it all, my self-hatred remained. When I unexpectedly had to return to the UK, lost and grieving a life I’d loved, my eating disorder quietly stepped back into control.

At first, it didn’t feel obvious as I was busy, distracted with my recent move to London with two friends, again, praised by those around me for being so disciplined and motivated. Slowly, my world started to shrink. Food stopped being something I responded to naturally and became something I avoided altogether. My thoughts were consumed. I spent hours on end scrolling through menus and social media, fantasising about food I wouldn’t allow myself to eat. I wandered supermarkets at all hours, looking but never choosing. My eating disorder absolutely thrived on denial.

Eventually, I was referred for NHS support by my GP. I waited and waited, believing help was coming, while my physical and mental health worsened. Months later, I received a call that still haunts me, telling me the referral had never actually been sent. I had been waiting - and deteriorating - for nothing. By then, I was terrified. I genuinely believed I might not survive much longer.

When I was finally assessed by a specialist, I was told the waiting lists were extremely long and the options limited. That day broke something in me. I went home and completely fell apart. I told my friends and family how serious things were and prepared for the worst, because I didn’t trust the system to help me in time. I wrote a will, chose my funeral songs, said my goodbyes - at 25.

That was when I made the hardest decision of my life - I chose to go for private treatment - something I am incredibly grateful for. I was an inpatient at an eating disorder hospital for four weeks and a day patient for six after that. It was the first time I had really faced my fears - and the first time I truly accepted that I had a problem. I have anorexia.

Treatment was terrifying. It stripped away everything my eating disorder relied on. It was intense, uncomfortable, and emotionally exhausting. But it also saved my life. It absolutely saved my life. For the first time, recovery wasn’t something I fitted around work, relationships, or expectations, it was the priority. It had to be.

Now, I make a conscious effort to actively choose myself every day. Recovery is still new and still hard. I have good days and difficult ones. But the constant mental noise has started to quieten. I feel clearer, calmer, more present. Food no longer feels like an enemy, and I am slowly learning how to treat myself with kindness instead of punishment.

I share my story on my recovery account, @recoverwithemily, because I know how lonely eating disorders can be. I want others to know that struggling doesn’t mean you’ve failed - it means you deserve support.

Things often scream loudest when they’re dying - I love this quote. My eating disorder is losing its grip, and I am stronger than I ever believed I could be.

Recovery is possible. And you are worth choosing - always.