How to love a body that doesn't love you back

And the mindset shift that is helping me move into a new phase of ED recovery.

trigger warning: mention of eating disorders and some symptoms involved. if you are not in a place to read this, that is ok! your wellness matters more to me than you reading this story.

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Building trust with a body I've hated, abused, and neglected for 19 years is likely going to be a lifelong battle. But what if it's not a battle? What if it's not a fight like everyone says?

What if building trust with my body is a love story?

After my second round of eating disorder treatment, I can proudly say I’ve experienced valuable changes in my mental state. Some things I’ve noticed:

• Increased flexibility (not just with what I eat, but with changes in plans, unmet expectations, and handling uncertainty)

• Fewer food rules (there’s more inclusivity in my pantry—there’s a place on the shelf for deserts and ritz bitz, processed foods, and backup canned soups for lazy nights. Food isn’t “good” or “bad,” it’s food)

• Desire to care for myself (less punishing myself for overeating, not meeting deadlines, or saying the wrong thing, and more interest in feeding myself consistently, moving my body how it wants to, and developing meaningful relationships)

• Increased support-seeking (ample harm-reduction as a result of not bottling everything up or trying to solve problems alone. when I notice any small thoughts or feelings come up I text my recovery group, call family members, or send voice memos to vent with trusted friends)

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We love these positive changes, and I’ve noticed an immense shift in my daily mood as a result.

I feel less stressed, less depressed, and less pressed (sorry I had to rhyme a third time even if it doesn’t make sense). My baseline mood is optimistic, content, and relaxed.

This is a big deal for me as someone who used to oscillate between major low depressive states, panic/high-stress states, and small bouts of euphoria.

I’m grateful, proud, and simultaneously scared it might all end. I am reminding myself the fear of “the other shoe dropping” is simply a function of familiarity bias—my brain is more accustomed to the chaos than the calm, so it still doesn’t feel safe in this stable state (yet).

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I wrote more on familiarity bias in the post below:

Why do we resist the good?

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My body is taking longer to catch up. Or, rather, the relationship I have with my body is taking longer.

While I’ve noticed these beautiful changes in mind and mood, I still don’t like my body. I feel like I’m living in a foreign entity—like I’ve been staying in someone else’s house for longer than I planned, and I really want to go home.

My brain is longing for the familiarity of my “old” body—a body I occupied and returned to time and time again to feel safe. A home that continued to grow mold and breakdown and require that I move out because the conditions were unsafe and unlivable. A home that made me sick but one I kept moving back into, because I built it.

I write openly about my eating disorder in my memoir, “Where the River Flows.” I’ve made chapter one free if you’d like to preview the book:

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A few weeks ago I stepped down a level in eating disorder treatment.

I’ll still see my 1:1 team and a weekly group, but the three-hour intensive group nights have ended.

My therapist asked me how I felt about stepping down, and I mumbled something about feeling like no longer wanting to hurt myself. She reflected what I said much more eloquently and said, “Ah, so you can finally say to yourself, the war is over.”

I wept when she said this, because in a lot of ways she was right. I felt as though the war was over.

But it also felt incongruent, because if the war was over, that meant a truce had been made. That my body and I had come to an agreement to no longer fight. That we would co-exist, my body and me, and collaborate on a life lived in harmony on the same plot of land. That we would rebuild a house from scratch, together, and make it a safe and loving place to live.

To build a new home together, my body and I will need trust.

Trust takes time. Consistency. Respect and ample listening and responding. Repair if conflict arises, and enough courage to turn towards each other over and over.

To trust my body, I am going to have to let go of fears I have about what will happen to the aesthetics of our home if I let her take the lead—we might not have the same ideas for where windows should go or the flow of the living room layout—she might decide to build high and tall where I may have built wide and spacious.

To trust my body, I have to let go of some of my ideas of what the house is supposed to look like, and focus on what I want it to feel like, living there with her, together.

My body will have to trust me too.

And while I can’t force or take her trust, there are things I can do to show her it’s safe to trust me:

• I can show up consistently so she knows I’m reliable.

• I can listen to her suggestions and integrate them into action.

• I can hold her when she cries and let her know it’s safe to express herself.

• I can ask questions, get curious, and stay non-judgmental if her answers surprise me.

• I can stay present when she throws a fit or has big feelings and drop my ego.

• I can tell her how proud of her I am when she gets up and tries again after falling or flailing.

• I can love her over and over and over until she experiences love as familiar. I can love her enough so she can trust it’s safe to be loved.

Building trust with her will take extra time, because for years I showed her it wasn’t safe to trust me.

I am not starting from scratch.

I’m starting with a history of neglect and abuse and ridiculous expectations. I’ll have to go slow, and I’ll have to be patient.

Gaining my body’s trust is not a fight. The fight is not about us—it never was. The fight is about society. Diet culture. Beauty ideals and standards and constant focus on the way bodies look. That’s the fight.

But my body and I are on the same side of the battle line now, facing the same direction, holding hands and trying to the best of our ability to stay that way.

We can’t do that without love. I know it sounds cheesy AF and I feel like a cornball saying it, but I believe it.

Recovery, I am realizing, is not about being a warrior. It’s about being a lover.

I don’t think I can change my relationship with my body unless I lean in with love.

Unless I start to think of this part of recovery as a romance.

Unless I imagine my body as the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen, and that it’s a gift to watch her bloom.

If you are in a season of blooming, I’d love to hear what’s helping. The comments section is open to all, and it’s important to me that we support and learn from each other in this process.

May your war end soon, too.

XX
Rachel

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More from Rachel (me, lol):

📚You can read chapter one of my book free here to feel less alone in your recovery, grief process, or managing your mental health.

📝Download my free guided journals here to build a daily practice that enriches mental wellness, inner child healing, or self-love.

👩🏼‍💻Take my Writing Masterclass here and learn to share your story online and impact others.