“Mom, I think I have an eating disorder.”

My daughter knew that I had struggled with an ED as a teen, and she was coming to me for help. I was glad that she told me, yet this hit me hard.

At fourteen, I’d spent nine months of my life in a residential treatment facility behind a door that swung shut and locked when we entered (terrifying!) Hearing that my girl was struggling felt like she was implying that I'd been doing something wrong; maybe she had gotten a message from me that her body needed to be different.

I felt embarrassed and ashamed because I thought I had done a good job of “getting over” my ED; I thought I was setting a good example of how to be “healthy.”

Now I was confused and anxious.

I found a therapist and a dietician for my daughter, and before long, the therapist told us that she'd need an intensive treatment program (partial hospitalization PHP). I fought this tooth & nail; anything to keep her in school for...

I remember well the back-to-school mix of emotions that would fall upon me as summer wound down; I remember the anxiety of seeing people for the first time in months, feeling dread in having to abandon the summer routines I had created for myself, and the discouragement that my summer hadn’t panned out in the perfect way social media portrayed others. 

One summer that sticks out is the one before my senior year of college. I had spent the majority of that summer working hard at recovery and I spent some time in a partial hospitalization program after having already taken off a semester for residential treatment.

In my bubble of that "safe" and recovery-focused world, I felt good. I was proud of the progress I had made and I was excited for the school year to come…until I stepped back on campus. At my dorm, I was greeted with silent reminders that my break hadn’t looked like others'. I was faced with the challenges of living in recovery while...