“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...

It was the first night of 6th grade science camp. All through elementary school, I looked forward to this week away from home; it meant I was a big kid, and adventure, and meeting new people from other schools in the county.

Although it was decades ago, I still remember the initial feeling of exhilaration as I walked into the mess hall for dinner wearing my favorite clothes- a pale blue short-sleeved sweater with tiny flowers on it, green corduroy pants, and suede saddle shoes (brown tones, not the black & white version). I sat down at a table for 8. I can’t remember if I sat at this table because it was assigned or if, because I was late, it was the only one with an empty seat, but every face sitting there was new to me.

As I took a seat, one of the boys asked, “Are you a boy or a girl?” I remember laughing it off; I thought my short hair was the height of femininity, I mean, couldn’t they tell by my pretty floral sweater that I was a girl?!

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