Written by Sarah Revie (Cuvalo)
Eating isn’t simple for me.
It’s never really been simple.
For many people, food is an afterthought; something woven seamlessly into daily life, family gatherings, and celebrations. For me, it has always been something I have to plan around, fear, and recover from. My relationship with food touches every part of my life; my relationships, my work, my health, my sense of belonging. Even something as small as going out for dinner with my partner, or attending a family BBQ, can send me into a spiral of anxiety. And because food is everywhere, at work meetings, birthdays, holidays, that anxiety often feels inescapable.
Throughout my life, I’ve heard a lot of well-intentioned things like, “just try a little” or, “you have to eat.” But what many don’t see is that my eating disorder is not about choice, vanity, or willpower. It’s about fear, sensory overwhelm, and a lifetime of experiences that have taught my body and mind to associate food with distress. It’s not that I don’t want to eat it, it’s that sometimes, I can’t.
It’s not that I don’t want to eat, it’s that sometimes, I can’t.
When I was in university, I became so unwell that I could barely function. I remember one night vividly. I can close my eye’s and I’m right back there in that hospital bed. I hadn’t eaten or even had water in days, and my body was shutting down. I went to the emergency room, dehydrated and terrified. I told the doctor, as clearly as I could, that I had an eating disorder. They looked at me and said, “what makes you think that?”
I remember staring back at them, trying to find the words. I told them that eating felt impossible. That I wasn’t like other people, that I couldn’t understand how anyone could fit three meals into a single day. I told them that I felt like I was dying. They could see that I’d been in and out of the emergency room, that I was malnourished and weak. But I didn’t have the knowledge, the language, or the energy to be the advocate, or, frankly, the “bitch” I needed to be in that moment. They sent me home with a prescription and no follow-up.
That became the pattern.
Test after test. Prescription after prescription. Bloodwork, ultrasounds, and embarrassingly enough, stool samples. Which, ironically, are nearly impossible to produce when you haven’t eaten in days.
When I finally found something that helped, lorazepam, I felt hope for the first time in years. It was the only thing that made eating bearable. For the first time, my body and mind felt quiet enough to try. But instead of exploring why it helped or referring me for specialized support, my doctors gave me a small supply and sent me on my way. No follow-up. No referrals. No conversation about what the medication was doing for me, or why that mattered.
So, I did what many people do when formal systems fail to provide care; I looked for relief elsewhere. I turned to the illicit drug supply. It wasn’t about getting high or escaping reality. It was about surviving. It was about finding some semblance of peace when nothing else worked. In harm reduction, we talk about how all substance use serves a purpose; often as a coping mechanism, a form of pain management, or a way to reclaim control. That was true for me. Using wasn’t a moral failure; it was an act of survival in a world that left me with no other options.
Of course, the relief came with its own risks. But even then, no one in healthcare asked what I was getting from the substances or how they were helping me cope. No one said, “it sounds like you found something that helps — can we find a safer way to meet that same need?” That kind of conversation could have changed everything.
I learned to wait until the absolute last moment to seek help. Until I was doubled over in pain, crying, and wishing I could just die to end it. By the time I made it back to the hospital, I was already defeated. And still, no one seemed to care. No one said, “that must be so hard.” No one offered counselling or referred me to anyone who could help. I was alone, trying to advocate for myself within a healthcare system that already struggles to take women seriously.
Every time I sought help, it felt like I was being measured against a checklist I didn’t fit. I didn’t “look” sick enough. I wasn’t thin enough. I wasn’t behaving the way professionals expected someone with an eating disorder to behave. And because I didn’t fit that mold, my pain was invisible, even when it was written all over my body.
What struck me most, over time, was realizing that I held so much privilege and still, I was treated this way. I’m a white woman who presents as “put together.” I spoke clearly, I was polite, I followed instructions. And still, I was dismissed, disbelieved, and sent home again and again and again. It made me question what chance I had to be heard — and what it means when even privilege can’t protect you from being dehumanized.
That realization changed me. It made me understand just how fragile care can be; how easily someone can slip through the cracks, even when they’re begging for help.
The impact of my eating disorder stretches far beyond food. It affects how I show up in the world, in relationships, friendships, and work.
My family struggles to understand. When I cancel plans, or can’t sit down for dinner, it feels like I’m disappointing them, and sometimes they tell me I am. They see refusal where there’s actually fear. They see avoidance where there’s shame and exhaustion.
My friends don’t always know what to do either. There are times when I can’t reply to messages for days or weeks, not because I don’t care, but because I simply don’t have the energy to pretend I’m okay. Living with an eating disorder means constantly performing wellness for other people’s comfort. It means calculating how to hide your illness so you can still belong.
Even my roommate, who is my best friend in the world, feels the impact. She’ll ask if I’m feeling up to hanging out, and I can see the disappointment on her face when I say no for the third or fourth time that week. When she asks if I want to grab a coffee, and I respond, “I haven’t eaten today.” When she asks if I want to go to the mall, or God forbid, plan a trip together.
Travel, which I adore, is hard. So are celebrations, meetings, and anything involving food. And let’s be honest, almost everything involves food. Things that bring others joy often bring me dread. It often feels like I’m letting everyone in my life down by not being able to do something that everyone else finds so easy.
Questions like, “will they still like me if I can’t eat their cupcake?” or “can I go to the office pizza party and not eat without having to lie and say I’m not hungry?” swirl around in my mind like static in the background of every social interaction. The thoughts hum quietly but persistently. Guilt, shame, anxiety — until even the simplest invitation feels like a test I know I’ll fail.
Work brings its own challenges. I’ve had to leave jobs that didn’t offer flexibility or accommodations. I’ve been told by employers that I’m lazy, that I can’t do the job, that maybe this work isn’t for me. I know they’re wrong. I know I’m incredibly capable. But how do you explain an invisible illness to someone who’s already decided it’s an excuse? How do you argue when you can’t work like everyone else? When you’ve had to call in sick because you can’t eat? It happened often. Too often.
I’ve sat in my manager’s office, sobbing, trying to make them understand that I want to be there, that I am trying my best, only to have them reply, “maybe this work just isn’t for you.” Those words still echo in my mind, eating away at my confidence, my sense of self, my strength.
In the past, coworkers have disliked me because, as they’ve said, “you always eat alone.” What they don’t see is that it’s not preference — it’s survival. Sitting in a lunchroom, surrounded by people talking and eating, my body goes into a state of hypervigilance. I can’t relax, can’t eat, can’t breathe the way everyone else seems to. Eating alone isn’t isolation. It’s the only way I can nourish myself at all.
And the hardest part?
Sometimes I tell people, “I’m only 10% of a person today.” It’s a joke, but not really. It’s the truth of how it feels some days; fragmented, incomplete, like the world is moving forward without me.
I can guarantee that if I never told you, you’d never know there was anything wrong with me. My illness is invisible. That’s what makes it so hard. I wish I looked unwell. I wish I could show people a physical manifestation of my pain, of the weight this illness carries, because sometimes it feels like that’s the only way anyone would believe me.
My relationship with food didn’t become complicated overnight. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.
As the only girl, the one who was good in school, independent, and less of a troublemaker than my three rowdy brothers, growing up was interesting. Expectations were different for me. I was the “easy one,” the one my parents didn’t have to worry about. But even as a child, I was quietly struggling.
As early as I can remember, I didn’t like to eat breakfast. My mother would make me sit at the table until I could finish what was in front of me. I’d push food around, take tiny bites, or tell her I felt sick and often, I did. The more I was told to eat, the more impossible it became.
In elementary school and throughout high school, I stopped taking lunch to school altogether. There was rarely anything at home that felt safe to eat anyway. When you’re poor and raising four kids, you shop for what everyone will eat, and it made sense that my parents bought food for my brothers’ tastes instead of mine. You can’t accommodate the picky one 24/7.
One of my friends’ mothers eventually started sending her with two granola bars, one for her and one for me. She knew I didn’t bring food to school, and she wanted to make sure I had something. That small act of care meant more than I could ever express. And without realizing it, that granola bar became my first “safe food.”
Of course, now I know much more about what feels safe and what doesn’t. Which textures, flavors, and temperatures my body can tolerate. But back then, I didn’t have the language for it. I was just labelled the picky one. The difficult one. The complainer.
My mother was always on one diet or another. Weight Watchers, Noom, low-carb, low-fat, whatever was in style that year. As far back as I can remember, there was always a new plan taped to the fridge. Now, I can see that her own relationship with food was born from trauma. It was her way of trying to feel in control of something. But when I was a little girl, it was confusing and painful to watch my mother hate her body. I thought she was beautiful.
She would listen to the things her family said about being “too fat,” and then speak those same words into existence around me. I don’t blame her. This was what women were taught to do; to shrink, to compare, to apologize for taking up space. It was the air she breathed. But even though she didn’t know any better, it still caused harm. While my mother was healing and growing, she didn’t realize the impact she was having on that little girl who thought she was perfect.
Eventually, I learned to stay quiet. I silently wilted away while my family and friends only saw the happy kid I pretended to be; the girl who had it all together. I became skilled at masking, at putting on a version of myself that looked the way others wanted to see me.
That’s the thing about early coping. It becomes a habit. And before you know it, pretending to be fine becomes who you are.
For years, I didn’t talk about my eating disorder. Not really. I’d make jokes about being a “picky eater,” or I’d quietly decline invitations that involved food, and people would let it go. It was easier that way. Easier to stay hidden, easier to pretend.
But silence has a way of eating at you.
It isolates you, convinces you that you’re the only one, that what you’re experiencing is shameful or wrong. For a long time, I believed that if I admitted how bad things were, it would make them real. I thought I could hold it all together if I just kept smiling, kept performing, and kept helping everyone else.
Over time, I became a master at masking. I thought it was a skill. That my ability to blend in, to hold everything together, was strength. But masking wasn’t protection; it was a wall. A barrier that kept people from truly knowing me and kept me from truly connecting with them.
I even went so far as to tell people I was allergic to certain foods, because it felt easier than the truth. I knew most people wouldn’t understand or worse; they’d roll their eyes and label me as difficult. It became second nature to twist reality just enough to keep myself safe, to be palatable in a world that demanded explanations I couldn’t give.
And then, something shifted. I got tired. Tired of being quiet. Tired of carrying something that was slowly killing me. Tired of a system that ignored me until I disappeared, then wondered why I didn’t ask for help sooner.
When I finally started speaking about my eating disorder, something unexpected happened. People listened. Not just professionals, but friends, coworkers, and clients. They thanked me for saying what they had never had words for. They told me that hearing someone speak openly, without shame, made them feel seen.
That’s when I realized something important: sharing isn’t weakness, it’s connection. It’s harm reduction in action. Because when we name what’s happening, we take away the power of silence and secrecy; the things that keep so many people from getting help.
There is still so much stigma around eating disorders, especially the kinds that don’t look the way people expect. When you appear “high-functioning” or “healthy,” people assume you’re fine. They don’t see the panic that lives in your body, the exhaustion, the constant mental math of what feels safe or not. They don’t see the effort it takes just to show up.
Speaking about it doesn’t fix everything. But it builds understanding. It opens the door to conversations that save lives. It challenges the idea that recovery has to look like abstinence or control. Sometimes recovery looks like simply surviving, like trying again tomorrow, like finding a way to eat one thing that feels safe.
That’s the truth I want people to hear: that healing isn’t linear, and that compassion will take someone further than judgment ever will.
Now, as someone who works in harm reduction and support, I carry these lessons with me. Not as scars, but as reminders that compassion and curiosity save lives. Every person deserves to be met where they are, not where the system thinks they should be. And sometimes, the most healing thing we can offer someone is to simply believe them.
These days, I’m learning to take up space. Physically, emotionally, unapologetically. I tell people what I need, and if they can’t or won’t accommodate, I’ll make them. I’ve learned how to be “mean” when I need to be; which really just means standing up for myself without apology. I no longer mask, or at least I’m trying not to. It’s an ongoing process, one I’ll likely be working on for the rest of my life. But I’m ready for the fight.
I no longer measure progress by what or how much I eat. Progress, for me, looks like being gentle with myself when I can’t do what others expect. It looks like finding moments of safety in a body that once felt like a battleground.
Healing, I’ve learned, isn’t a destination. It’s a daily choice. One I have to make again and again. Some days I win, some days I don’t, and that’s okay. The goal isn’t to be perfect; it’s to keep showing up.
I’ve stopped apologizing for my needs. I rest when I’m tired. I say no when I need to. I’ve stopped pretending that wellness looks one specific way. There’s power in living honestly. In letting people see the parts of me I used to hide.
I’m not in recovery. Not yet. I struggle every single damn day with this. One day, I believe I will be in recovery. But for now, I’m just happy I’m still here. Survival is its own kind of success.
When I think about where I am now, I no longer feel broken and alone. I feel awake. Awake to my body, my limits, my strength, and my worth. Awake to the truth that showing up even on the hardest days is a kind of healing too.
I want to live in a world where people don’t have to hide their pain to be treated with dignity. Where asking for help isn’t seen as weakness. Where healthcare is built on trust and curiosity instead of suspicion and shame. That’s the world I’m working toward. The one I want to help build through every conversation, every act of compassion, every small rebellion against stigma.
Because moving forward doesn’t mean leaving your pain behind. It means learning to carry it differently; with kindness, with boundaries, with pride.
Being Human Writing 
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