When I first fell into an ED, I thought it was all about the weight. How much you’ve lost. How small you’ve gotten. The number on the scale, the size of your jeans, the calories on your plate. I feel so stupid that I never even thought about everything else that I would lose, and that weight was just the beginning of it all. But once you go so deep into an ED, everything else seems unimportant, when in reality, it’s all that should matter.
Of course I’m not going to be going into how much weight I have lost, but I have lost a lot more than weight, and it comes in both physical and emotional form. Arguably, the emotional is probably worse, because I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know if this ED self is the “new me” or if it’s just my messed up brain pushing me to be this version of me. I actually don’t know what my baseline personality is anymore, who would I even be if I get my hormones back to baseline? would she even be liked? What if she’s not liked AND is also in a bigger body? I cannot let that happen, might as well stay in this smaller body and pretend to be who I was before, I think she was liked?
That is obviously messed up.. so I first have to realize what I have lost, and hopefully through this log, I will come to realize the importance of everything that I have lost, and how it made me who I was.
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I LOST MY PERIOD. It’s strange how something so natural, so essential, can vanish without much warning. For years, I actually saw it as a win. A sign of “success.” Like I had unlocked some elite level of control. But now, every time I notice its absence, I feel a pang of something deeper — grief, maybe. Fear. A woman’s period is considered her fifth vital sign. It’s not just a monthly inconvenience; it’s a message from the body that things are functioning as they should. And mine has been silent for a while now.
I don’t know what that means for my future. For motherhood. For the dreams I used to hold so lightly, so naturally, like they’d just happen when the time was right. I hate that this illness has stolen that from me — the ease, the confidence, the simple belief that my body could one day do what it was designed to do.
I LOST HAIR. Not completely, nor enough to not manage to hide. But enough to worry. It falls out more easily now. Thinner at the ends. Brittle. Fragile, like so much else in me. I am confident it will grow back. My body needs to trust me again to kick start functions that aren’t “vital”. It’s scary. Because it’s not just hair — it’s a signal. My body is trying to survive, and in doing so, it’s prioritizing the essentials, and my ED brain is also telling me that the essential is to continue to stay slim.
I LOST MUSCLE. I used to feel strong. I felt capable, I could do anything, and I prided myself on being able to swim for hours, lift heavy, move through the world feeling strong. But now not only do I look small, but I feel small and depleted. Now that I’m typing this, the funny thing is that when I was bigger, more muscular, I was so much more confident walking down the streets owning my body and the things that it allows me to do… and now, I should feel prettier, feel more like I fit in with this skinny led society, but I actually feel even more conscious about every stare, every compliment… Because I feel like I’m not enough.
I’ve lost confidence. When you are sick with ED, you cant help but feel like
I’ve lost energy.
This one hurts. Because I used to love doing. I loved going out. Being outside. Making plans. Meeting friends. Laughing until my cheeks hurt. But now, everything feels like a cost. A transaction. Like I’m constantly calculating how much energy I can afford to spend. Even simple joys feel expensive. And it’s not just physical exhaustion — it’s soul-deep. Like my spirit is tired.
I’ve lost focus.
I used to be sharp. Motivated. I could sit down and get things done. I could chase goals, finish projects, follow through. But these days, my brain feels foggy. Scattered. Like I’m wading through water just to do the most basic things. Hunger eats away at your ability to concentrate. It steals your attention and redirects it entirely toward survival — food, numbers, rules, rituals. There’s not much mental space left for anything else.
I’ve lost patience.
Because everything requires effort now. Just existing takes willpower. And when you’re using all your energy to manage your hunger — to keep it quiet, to suppress it, to pretend you’re fine — there’s not much left for anything else. I snap more easily. I feel overwhelmed faster. I carry a quiet rage that I don’t always understand.
And emotionally… I’ve lost even more.
Work feels harder. Relationships feel heavier. I feel more fragile — like the parts of me that once felt open and full are now closed off and dimmed. I know how to pretend. I know how to smile, to nod, to play the role. But it takes everything I have. The mask isn’t effortless anymore. It drains me. Leaves me hollow.
I’ve lost friends.
Not always dramatically. Not with big blowups or final goodbyes. Just slowly, quietly, like sand slipping through fingers. I pull away. I say no. I cancel plans. I disappear into my own head. And even when I’m there in person, I’m not always really there. I miss people. I miss connection. I miss the girl I used to be — the one who showed up, who laughed without thinking, who said yes without calculating the food situation first.
And maybe most painfully… I’ve lost hope.
Not entirely. But I feel it slipping some days. The bright-eyed optimism I used to carry — the belief that things would work out, that I’d be okay, that I had time — it’s dimmed. Some days I wonder if I’ve done irreversible damage. If the real “me” is still in there somewhere, or if she’s been buried under too many rules, too many years of trying to shrink.
But even as I write this — even as I list all the things I’ve lost — I know that naming it is a start.
This is not the end of the story.
I want to believe that recovery isn’t just about gaining weight. It’s about reclaiming all these other pieces, too. The parts of me that matter more than any number. The parts I thought were gone for good.
So this is me, trying to remember.
Trying to rebuild.
Trying to come back.
One small piece at a time.
Beyond the Broken 