For years, I struggled with a deep sense of unease around food. I ate whether I was hungry or not, and my life revolved around rigid food rules. Often, I’d feel completely out of control, eating until I was uncomfortably full, only to be consumed by guilt and shame afterwards. My body felt like a source of constant disgust.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was experiencing the symptoms of Binge Eating Disorder (BED), a condition that developed at the young age of 15, shortly after the loss of my father. My dad’s battle with pancreatic cancer was swift and agonizing, spanning only five months from diagnosis to his passing. The experience left an indelible mark on me, a young teenager thrust into the role of an emotional support system for my mother and brother while grappling with my own grief.
Food became my sanctuary, a warm, comforting blanket in a time of immense upheaval. I later discovered that it was acting as a form of self-medication, suppressing the overwhelming stress and intense emotions I was enduring. Food allowed me to numb the pain, to escape the overwhelming reality.
I remember one evening, sitting on the sofa watching TV, my mind consumed by an insatiable craving for pizza. Yet, at the same time, I desperately wanted to resist it. The craving was relentless, and the only way to silence it was to give in. Fear gripped me. I knew that I’d ‘pay the price’ later, subjected to my own harsh self-criticism.
Worried that the pizza wouldn’t be enough, I impulsively bought three bags of chips and several chocolate bars. I quickly devoured two bags and then dove into the pizza, drowning every bite in a thick layer of garlic mayo. At the beginning of a binge, there was always a voice within me, urging me to stop, to just eat a couple of slices. But quickly, my body took over, driven by an insatiable desire to eat, to consume, to fill the void.
The world around me slowed down, my stomach felt heavy and bloated. I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t. It was like I needed to consume as much as possible, as quickly as possible. My body went numb, the emptiness filled, and a sense of warmth and fuzziness washed over me.
Soon after, the guilt and shame would set in. Disgusted by my own actions, I tore myself apart internally. A part of me felt deeply hurt and upset, but the only way I knew how to respond was with food. The cycle continued, fueled by a desperate need to soothe the pain.
My most intense binges often happened on the sofa in the evenings, but binge eating was only one facet of my struggle. Entire weeks were consumed by the tyranny of the scale, my mood dictated by a brief glance in the mirror. I fixated on certain body parts, my stomach, arms, legs, feeling disgusted and yearning for them to be different.
There were days when I restricted my food intake so severely that I would later find myself standing at the fridge, eating anything and everything in sight. My body, my survival instinct, was eating for me, driven by insatiable hunger.
By the time I reached 21, I had spent a fortune on various attempts to heal from binge eating, accumulating a significant amount of debt in the process. I tried every diet imaginable, from veganism to keto, raw food, and everything in between. I devoured self-help books, signed up for intuitive eating programs, and purchased expensive supplements and ingredients. I underwent colonic irrigation, participated in intensive Ayurvedic retreats, tried CBT, mindfulness, and counseling. I even went to physiotherapy, believing that the pain in my back was preventing me from exercising and losing weight. (This was peak desperation.)
Some things offered temporary relief, sometimes my willpower and restraint would last longer, but ultimately, nothing seemed to work.
Eventually, I found a brilliant psychologist who helped me unpack the trauma and emotional burdens that had followed my father’s death. I began to understand the immense responsibility I had taken on in supporting my mother and brother, the feeling of isolation, and the lack of support I had received. I cultivated compassion for myself, and my relationship with food began to improve. However, I still didn’t feel the complete ease and freedom I craved. The ‘food noise’ was quieter, but still present.
While my eating patterns had improved significantly through therapy, there were still areas where I felt restricted. It was then that I started working with a somatic therapist, whose practice focused on the body. This felt like the missing piece. For the first time in my life, I felt truly in control of my choices. I felt empowered within my body and around food.
The shame that had defined my relationship with myself was replaced by deep love and compassion. My ability to sit with my emotions and intense sensations grew, and I gradually learned how to support myself without relying on food as a crutch.
I began to identify the early warning signs of my body entering into states of activation and survival, the precursors to binges. I learned how to sit with these sensations without resorting to food to suppress them. I discovered how to nourish myself and find safety beyond food.
Healing from binge eating has been about allowing all parts of myself to exist, about giving tender love to the parts that have endured unbelievable pain. Pain still comes and goes, but I have learned to let it be present, to acknowledge it without trying to bury it beneath layers of food.
If you are experiencing patterns of binge or emotional eating, whether it’s connected to grief or not, it’s important to understand that it’s never really about the food. It’s always a response to what you are feeling inside. Binge eating is a normal, human response to extremely difficult experiences. It doesn’t make you wrong, it doesn’t mean you’re a failure – it just makes you human.
If you are struggling with an eating disorder, please know that you are not alone. Reach out to a therapist, a support group, or a trusted friend or family member. There is help available, and recovery is possible.
