About Me

I have it all. I really do. A wonderful life. A very loving family. The most amazing husband I could have ever imagined. Friends who are supportive and kind. A stable job. A safe, comfortable home. So many people would say I’m lucky — and intellectually, I know I am. I really do. I don’t take any of it for granted.

But here’s the thing. I also live with some of the most common eating disorders. I have anorexia. I have bulimia. I binge. I purge. And I’ve done all of that while pretending everything was fine.

I was born and raised in Hong Kong — completely Asian through and through. And in the culture I grew up in, people don’t just notice your body. They talk about it. Every auntie, every adult, every family friend would comment. “Oh, she’s so pretty!” — which sounds sweet until you realise that it’s something they say to literally every little girl. Like it’s just filler. Like weather talk. But I took it in, and somewhere along the way I internalised the message: being pretty was the most important thing I could be. That’s what people saw. That’s what they valued. And every time I gained or lost weight — even just a little — someone noticed. Someone said something. What I ate, how much I ate, how I looked eating it… it always felt like it was being observed, measured. Like I was being watched.

When I was about eleven, my family moved to Australia. And even though the culture was different, there was still this idea of being “small” — but the focus shifted slightly. It became more about being healthy, being active, being able to perform. I was going through puberty, training a lot for swimming, and I was just… growing. I had an appetite. I was hungry. But I still had a healthy relationship with food at that time. I ate when I was hungry and I didn’t think twice about it. It was just part of life.

But most of my family was still back in Hong Kong, and I flew home nearly every term break. Every few months I’d return, and each time, whatever change had happened to my body — they noticed. They commented. It never went unspoken. My body was always part of the conversation.

What really started to change things for me was a comment from my dad. He had done some personal training education — but back in the ’80s — and he put me on a “regimen” he thought was best. It was the classic old-school mindset: eat as little as possible, eat as bland as possible, train as hard as you can, and then some. And like all restrictive approaches, it broke me down. I was constantly tired. I was trying to keep up with school and swimming while going through puberty, but I had nothing in the tank. That was the beginning of my obsession with food. With thinking about it all the time. With dreaming about the next time I’d be “allowed” to eat something satisfying.

The only time I ever ate without shame was during special celebrations — birthdays, holidays, moments when it was socially acceptable to indulge. I was running on empty all the time, but I convinced myself the hunger was a sign of discipline. The pain felt worth it because the number on the scale was going down. I started to crave that feeling — the shrinking, the control.

But looking back, it’s heartbreaking. I wasn’t able to enjoy any of it. I was surrounded by people I loved, eating the food I’d grown up with, and I couldn’t even be present. Every piece of dim sum felt like a sin. Like I was undoing all my hard work. I was anxious the entire time. I didn’t look forward to seeing family anymore — it didn’t feel safe. It felt like judgment day.

When I got to university, I stopped training seriously. I didn’t join the swim team because the training hours didn’t suit my new lifestyle, and I wasn’t chasing a career as an athlete. I was focusing on friendships, career, social life. Living.

And in many ways, that period felt like what people call the “freshman fifteen.” I gained weight from freedom. From dinners out and wine nights and staying up late and laughing with friends. But the fear of gaining too much weight sat quietly in the background. I didn’t know how to work out without structure, and I still held the belief that lifting weights would make me bulky — so I ran. That was all I knew how to do. Just run and run and run.

Eventually I started dating a personal trainer. He introduced me to lifting and macros and the idea that carbs were the enemy. He gave me a number — 1,200 calories a day — and told me that’s what I should be aiming for. That’s when the obsession really kicked in. I started skipping breakfast, “saving calories” for later, obsessively logging everything I ate. I would go hours without food, feel starved, then end up bingeing at night. But I didn’t even know that was disordered. I thought I was just hungry. I thought maybe I had a bigger appetite than most. And honestly, I kind of liked how much I could eat — it felt freeing not to be judged. I loved the satisfaction of feeling full, even if it only lasted a few moments before the shame returned.

Then came adulthood. I got a full-time job in sales, which meant lots of networking, social events, client dinners. I finally had freedom. I had money. I had a life. And since I had never lived away from home during university, this new phase of life felt like another version of that “freshman fifteen.” Except this time, I felt healthy. I was working out. I was getting compliments. I thought I had found balance. There was still food noise in my head, but it wasn’t unbearable yet.

Then came 2020. COVID hit. Suddenly I was home all the time. Working remotely. Isolated. Food quickly became my main source of comfort. I was anxious and lost, and the kitchen was always just a few steps away. Snacking became a way to soothe myself, and I could feel the weight piling on — which made me panic. So I restricted again. I started eating smaller and smaller portions, trying to “reset.” But of course, restriction only gave food more power. Every time I went on a plan, I ended up bingeing harder. Gaining more. And no one was talking about it. All I felt was shame, like I was failing at something I should have had control over.

I didn’t even realise how deep I was in until I met the man who’s now my husband.

And let me say this clearly: I don’t blame him for any of it. But I do wish I had confronted my own issues sooner. He had a very unique way of relating to food — he often wouldn’t eat all day and only allow himself to eat at night, once he felt like he had “earned” it. I started mimicking that pattern, especially on weekends. During the workweek, I could stick to something that looked more “normal” — three meals and snacks, fueling my morning workouts and long days. But the disorder was still there. The shame. The rules. The way I used food to cope with stress, or avoided it altogether when I felt too “fat.” Sometimes I’d use him as motivation to eat less. I thought I was being strong.

But all I was really doing was reinforcing this idea that food was something I had to earn. That hunger was a weakness. That control was everything.

I had already been dabbling in restriction — skipping meals, eating just enough to get by. But now I had spiritual validation for it. Fasting wasn’t just okay — it was encouraged. It was holy. It was admired. I told myself I didn’t need much food anymore. I had a less stressful job. I could do this. I should do this.

I started researching fasting. Watching videos. Following people like Mindy Pelz. I obsessed over “clean fasting” and all the rules. I read that eating more than 50 calories would break a fast, and from that point on, moderation didn’t feel like an option. If I had to eat out, I’d already “failed,” so I might as well purge. If I ate a full meal, I’d punish myself with exercise. Sometimes I’d work out once before eating — and once again to make up for it.

And if I felt hunger?

I didn’t know if it was real — or just weakness.

I was always thinking. Always calculating. Always battling with my own body. And I was so, so tired.

Today, I’m in a slightly better place. I’ve at least acknowledged that I have a problem. I haven’t found a therapist yet. I haven’t stopped the rules. But I told my husband. I said it out loud. I let someone in. And in doing that, I took one step away from the illusion that everything was fine.

Honestly, part of why I opened up was because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t handle certain topics, certain comments, certain moments where I had to pretend. But more than that — I saw what it was doing to my relationship. And as much as my eating disorder has dictated nearly every part of my life, I knew it couldn’t be bigger than my relationship with the person I love. He had been in the dark for so long, watching me unravel without knowing why. He deserved to understand.

I know this was long. And messy. And maybe hard to read. But if you’re here — thank you. I hope this gives you a little context for where I’m coming from. I know your story is your own, and your journey with food might look different from mine. But if you’ve ever felt like your body was your enemy, or food was a weapon, or hunger was shameful…

I hear you.
I see you.
And I understand the pain.