You Can't Change the Past
What I Wish My Younger Self Knew About Recovery—And the Life She Never Thought She’d Have
EDITION NO. 023
CW: This essay discusses lived eating disorder experiences
Healing from an eating disorder or body shame is never linear—it’s messy, slow, and filled with unexpected grief and revelations. If we could go back and talk to our past selves, we wouldn’t just tell her “it gets better.” We’d acknowledge her pain, validate her struggles, and offer the truths that actually would have made a difference.
You’re 4 years old
You don’t know it yet, but you’re already learning that being seen means being desirable.
You watch the women around you carefully curate their appearances—eyeliner drawn thick, rouge caked on, lips painted just right.
You see them checking their reflections, adjusting their clothes, examining their bodies with quiet scrutiny.
You wonder if changing your face will make you wanted, too.
A bathroom scale sits in the corner, a fixture as ordinary as the sink or mirror.
You step on it innocently, tiny feet pressing into the cold glass.
The numbers mean nothing to you yet.
But you notice how the adults in your life consult it daily, as if it holds an answer they desperately need.
You don’t know it yet, but you were never the problem. You never were.
You’re 8 years old
Your belly sticks out big, soft with childhood, and your parents make it a point to hide it.
Shirts pulled down. Photos are positioned just right.
You start to wonder if your body is a mistake.
You see how hunger is treated like something to atone for—how the adults around you repent for eating with juice cleanses and skipped meals, praising each other for their restraint.
Thinness is equated with desirability, and you start to ask yourself: Am I small enough?
You begin to believe your body might be wrong, something to be managed, contained, controlled.
Your home becomes a silent classroom of shame, where a protruding belly is hidden, and dieting becomes a whispered ritual.
You wonder if your body, with its softness, its appetite, its natural shape, is something you must conquer to be loved.
A medical-grade scale has made its way into your living room, settling in like a piece of home decor.
You learn to weigh yourself, to track the numbers. To celebrate the dips, to fear the rises.
You don’t know it yet, but your body was never something that needed to be hidden.
You’re 12 years old
Your friends love going to the mall, trying on trendy clothes, layering on lip gloss in dressing room mirrors.
You want so badly to belong. In the harsh fluorescent lights of the dressing room, you struggle into a pair of jeans that don't quite fit.
Shame blossoms hot in your chest.
Your body is changing rapidly, and you feel deeply unsafe in your skin.
You try to tame your unruly hair, cover your acne, and mimic the girls around you—anything to feel less different, less awkward, less yourself.
You live in a world where growing up is controlled rather than celebrated, but what you don’t realize yet is that change was always meant to happen.
You don’t know it yet, but your body was always meant to change. This is not a betrayal. It’s growth.
You’re 16 years old
You have more freedom now, but you're trapped by a new kind of bondage: your eating disorder.
Prom is coming up, and you’re determined to fit into a dress two sizes too small.
You spend your hard-earned cash on cans of SlimFast, forcing yourself to choke them down instead of eating real food.
Your body has become the enemy.
Hunger feels holy, a painful reminder that you're doing something right.
Starvation becomes your silent prayer for acceptance.
The scale dictates your mood, your worth, your entire identity. You step on the scale daily, willing the numbers to drop.
When they don’t, you turn against yourself with a fury you don’t understand.
Food is chaos. You starve. You binge. You try to make it all disappear.
You don’t know it yet, but your hunger was never the problem. Your body size doesn't determine your worth. It never has.
You’re a college student
You earned a scholarship for cross-country, but now running has become your punishment.
A constant trade—miles for food, hunger for control.
Every workout becomes a calculation: how much have you earned the right to eat today? But no amount of running makes food feel safe.
The inside of bathroom stalls becomes your sanctuary.
You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your reflection, pulling at your skin, calculating your worth by the number on the scale, the way your pants fit, and the space you take up.
Starving yourself feels safer than feeling anything at all.
Inside, you're disappearing—not in the way you hoped, but in the way that leaves you hollow.
You're exhausted. You're scared.
And some days, the weight of it all feels unbearable, impossible to carry alone.
I see the exhaustion in your eyes and the emptiness behind your disciplined façade.
But here’s the thing you haven’t grasped yet: you don't need punishment, you need kindness.
Your body isn't a problem—it never was. You're allowed to rest, to eat, and to feel without guilt.
You don’t know it yet, but this will not always be your reality.
Food will not always be this loud. Your body will not always be a battleground. And you will not always be at war with yourself.
You’re a New Bride
You've found someone who sees the beauty in you that you can’t yet see in yourself.
But you keep your eating disorder hidden, afraid it will taint this new love.
Bridal diet culture gives you the perfect disguise.
It’s easy to hide disordered behaviors behind the pursuit of the "perfect wedding body."
Intimacy becomes complicated, wrapped in layers of shame about your body.
But he sees through it all.
And he loves you anyway.
You dream of starting a family, but doctors tell you your body may not recover from years of restriction.
You feel broken, afraid you've damaged yourself beyond repair.
What you don’t see yet is how deeply capable you are of healing—and how love can help you reclaim yourself piece by piece.
You are not damaged goods; you're on the verge of discovering your resilience.
You don’t know it yet, but healing is already beginning. Slowly. Quietly. In the way he sees you, even when you cannot see yourself.
You’re Pregnant
You marvel at your growing belly, amazed your body could create life after years of punishment.
But with pregnancy comes ravenous hunger, sensations you've trained yourself to ignore.
You eat because you have to, but you feel untethered, unrecognizable.
Each doctor's visit feels like a reckoning, the scale dictating not just your weight but your sense of self.
Your body feels foreign, unpredictable, like it's working against you instead of for you.
You feel yourself unraveling.
You turn to exercise, hoping to anchor yourself in the familiar, but each movement is laced with doubt.
The same routine that once felt reassuring now fills you with guilt—an uneasy fear that every step, every movement, might be harming your baby, that the body you’re trying to steady is the same one meant to protect this new life.
You don’t realize it yet, but your body is doing something miraculous. You are the miracle.
You’re a New Mom
Motherhood is miraculous—and yet, somehow, it has cracked open old wounds you thought had healed.
You look in the mirror and don’t recognize yourself.
You are grateful—so deeply grateful—for the life your body has brought into the world.
But the shadows of your past return, uninvited, slipping into the spaces between exhaustion and self-doubt.
You're overwhelmed by the pressure to bounce back, to erase the evidence of motherhood, to pretend your body never carried life.
The demons you thought you had conquered creep back in, whispering the same old lie—that your worth depends on shrinking again.
You feel like you’re drowning.
You’re gasping for air, but no one seems to notice.
You don’t know it yet, but this is postpartum depression.
This isn’t your fault.
You are not failing.
You are hurting.
And you’re still a good mother.
The miracle staring back at you—your child—shows you that your body was never broken after all.
It was resilient, capable, powerful.
Healing isn’t linear, love.
You can’t see it yet, but this struggle is deepening you—your compassion, your strength, your fierce, unwavering love.
Your story is far from finished.
It’s just beginning.
You’re Feeding Your Children
Mealtime feels like navigating a minefield.
You're terrified—terrified of history repeating itself, of your past slipping through your hands and shaping their future.
How can you teach body trust when you're still learning to trust your own?
Every snack request, every unfinished dinner plate tugs at old wounds—shame, rules, panic, the ghosts of your childhood mealtimes.
You study every book, every blog, every expert, searching for the perfect formula to protect them from what you endured.
You try to get it right.
But food still feels loaded, heavy with meaning.
How do you teach your children to trust their bodies when you're still unlearning the fear in yours?
But here’s the truth you're just beginning to grasp: your struggles are not a liability—they are your wisdom.
You can break the cycle—not by being perfect, but by being present.
Not by shielding them from every misstep, but by walking beside them in the learning.
Your story—messy, imperfect, honest—can become a roadmap for your family’s healing.
You don’t know it yet, but your shame will become a source of strength.
The very thing you feared—the ways your past might shape them—will be what helps you create something different.
You’re a Mom in Recovery
You're here, now—motherhood and recovery intertwined, two journeys woven together.
Motherhood has become your greatest teacher.
Your children hold up mirrors to your wounds, inviting you to heal in ways you never imagined.
You still have hard days. Healing didn’t erase them.
Some days, the old thoughts whisper their way back in. But they don’t own you anymore.
Grief is part of the process.
You’re not just letting go of an eating disorder—you are mourning the years it took from you. And sometimes, you miss it. Even the hardest parts.
And that’s okay.
You once believed healing was a destination—a place where you'd finally love your body without effort or doubt. You thought it meant never struggling again.
But healing is slow, non-linear, and often feels worse before it feels better.
Every step you’ve taken—every difficult truth you’ve faced, every painful unraveling—has built resilience, depth, and compassion.
Your eating disorder doesn’t define you.
It shaped you, but it doesn’t own you.
You are discovering your strength not in perfection, but in your willingness to show up—messy, brave, and honest.
You are learning to tend to yourself with compassion. To meet your wounds with softness instead of shame.
To live inside your body without trying to escape it.
You won’t promise yourself that healing is easy.
But you will promise this:
Your life is worth saving.
You are not broken.
Your story isn't over yet.
You are allowed to take up space, exactly as you are.
And above all—you were always, always, so very loved.
If you could go back and tell your younger self one thing about healing, what would it be?