365 Days of Choosing Life.

In 365 days, I have moved 2,335 miles away from home, lived in 6 different houses/apartments, and spent 196 of those days in treatment. Needless to say, I’ve made a lot of changes in 365 days. And it all started with the decision to choose life.

June 3, 2015—exactly a year ago—I embarked on a journey to start living again. At the time, I had no idea what that entailed, but a timid little knock on the door was my first step in choosing life.

Looking back on this year, I see so much I have gained. The most important thing that has aided me in choosing life day in and day out has been using my voice. I’ve learned to speak up for myself, and it has made me more courageous than I ever thought possible. I have been able to voice my needs and feelings in friendships, at work, and with family where a year ago I would have turn inwards, beaten myself up, and taken it out on my food. I have learned that I only have one life, and I am the one who lives it; therefore, it is my responsibility, right, and privilege to make sure the things in my life are congruent with the way I want to live. By using my voice, I align my actions with my commitment to choose the life I want for myself.

In addition to using my voice to meet my own needs, I have taken a brave step to use my story as a source of advocacy. A year ago you couldn’t pay me a million bucks to tell my friends and family how sick I was. I was too scared and ashamed to speak the truth. Now, 365 days later, I am an open book, willing to share what I have done this year. I couldn’t be prouder of my recovery and the hard steps I have taken (and will continue to take) in order to be recovered.

With every blog post, part of me is filled with fear because I am allowing myself to be vulnerable to the world. But a bigger part of me is empowered. Empowered that I can use my story to make a difference in other’s lives. Empowered that I can advocate for recovery from an illness that goes unseen by most of the world. Empowered that I can speak truth to my peers when they struggle. Empowered that I, in spite of my hardships and brokenness, can be a light in this world.

And the responses I have received in return truly touch my heart. My eyes fill with tears of gratitude when I receive responses of encouraging affirmations, ways you can relate, and questions on how to get help. Taking a risk, although terrifying, is beyond rewarding. The incredible experiences I have gained by being vulnerable outweigh the lure of my eating disorder.

So much has changed in 365 days. Yet sometimes I feel like I’m still that withering girl waiting at the front step. In those moments, I thank that girl for taking the first step through the doors of Vista, and for choosing life. And, in honor of that brave soul, I will continue to choose life.

Whole30

Let's face it. Society places a huge emphasis on weight and physical appearance. Think about how many diet plans are out there. There’s the Paleo diet, the Mediterranean diet, the grapefruit diet. Popular in LA are the juice cleanses and detoxes. There’s Weight Watchers, Hydroxycut, and let’s not forget whole30challenge. 

The millions of diets, clean-eating plans, and fitness programs and technology, and surgery all promise one thing: confidence in yourself and love for your body. Not a bad goal…it’s actually a huge goal in my recovery. But where we differ is in the means to the happy healthy you. The diet mentality says the only way to be comfortable in your skin in to lose weight. And by losing weight, the diet “promises” you self-confidence, self-worth, and meaning in life.

This. Is. A. Lie.

Believe me, for years I completely ate it up. I believed if I lost “x” more pounds I would love my body. I aimed to change my body in hopes of finding my place in the world. I ate ‘clean’ to get rid of the disgust and shame I held. But at the end of each day, I was left without any self-worth and zero confidence in my skin. As I lost more and more weight, I began losing who I was. I lost my fiery spirit. I lost my spunk. I lost my will to live.

In direct contrast to everything I’ve heard in the world, I’ve discovered more happiness as I gained weight. Because as I gained weight, I gained myself back. I have opinions again. I have passions that spur a desire to make a difference in the world. I can be silly and not care what people think. I’ve gained back laughter—the kind where you can’t breathe and your stomach hurts so bad!

All of that I did by expanding what I ate…not restricting it. Through eating, I am discovering that confidence doesn’t come from the scale or my physical body at all. It comes from embracing my true spirit. I am reconnecting and maybe knowing for the first time that my self-worth is found in God’s love for me and the incredible human he has created me to be. I am learning that my past mistakes and even future ones do not change that.

A month ago my dietitian challenged me to a different kind of whole30. 30 days of eating 100% of my meal plan. It’s a huge accomplishment that I did it and that am continuing on that path. (Go me!) What I have discovered is that sticking to the plan gives me freedom to find my value in things other than my body.

So I leave you with a similar challenge. For 30 days, fight the diet mentality. However this looks for you, whether its by eating what you want, exercising when it feels good, complimenting your kids on things other than their appearance, directly speaking up for body acceptance, or quietly embracing your body, stick to it for 30 days. It’s my bet that at the end of the 30 days, you’ll keep it going just like I have.

The Space Where Choice Lies.

a piece from my brother's senior art portfolio

There comes a point in gymnastics where it is just you and the beam. You’ve done the drills, you’ve trained your body to do the skill safely, and all that is left is the deciding. Standing on the beam, arms pressed strong overhead, feet aligned, hips square, and I’m ready. I am the only thing that stands in the way of me staying frozen in that position or flying through the air as I connect two back handsprings. So often I stood there frozen. For hours. For days. For weeks. I was stuck. The fear of the unknown, of the potential failure outweighed the possibility of performing the series successfully. But what I didn’t grasp at the time was that staying in that ready position and not going for it led right to the failure I so feared. My rationale was that not giving myself the option meant that I couldn’t mess it up. What if I tried my hardest and still failed? In my mind, I thought that it would feel worse than not trying at all. Now I realize it feels the same. Incapable. Inadequate.

The situation is different now, but the energy is the same. Lately, I’ve been in this limbo of wanting to get better while also wanting to hold onto the safety in my eating disorder. The self-hate and criticism, the story that I replay over and over, somehow seems more comfortable than the risk it would take to go all in. Having the space to decide to tell myself a different story is terrifying. With the power of choice comes responsibility. I tell myself if I don’t allow another option then there isn’t a possibility of failure. I don’t have to wonder “what if”—what if I commit to a path of self-love, compassion, and acceptance, but I fall short? I still end up with the feelings of failure and little self worth. But those are the exact lies that my eating disorder feeds me, which keep me stuck. Just like staying frozen on top of the beam leads to a feeling of failure and inadequacy, so does living in between the eating disordered life and a healthy life. I’m scared of the feelings of failure after I’ve given it my best, but by not trying, I inevitably feel those exact feelings.

What I am realizing is: there is hope in having the space to choose. It subdues the fear. I know I’m already experiencing the very things I am scared of, so why not try? Why not eat my food, and keep it? Why not fight those urges of letting my eating disorder morph into new behaviors? Why not take the risk and trust the process? In allowing the option to succeed I am honoring the part of me that wants to get better. That believes my story has a purpose. That trusts I am loved, cherished, and worthy simply because I exist.

I end with this quote because 1. the image is hilarious and 2. it speaks to so much truth.

“Be decisive. Right or wrong, make a decision. The road of life is paved with flat squirrels who couldn’t make a decision.”

My New Family.

“Do you have any friends?” the guy next to me asked during the greeting time at church. We both laughed because the question came across all wrong. Of course he meant to ask if I was finding people in LA since I’m semi-new to the area. But it made me think—do I have friends here???

When I stepped off the plane on June 3^rd, I didn’t know a soul in LA. Even my brother who normally lives in Malibu was in Philly for the summer. I was completely alone, yet it didn’t feel much different from my daily life. I had friends at school and back home, but very few of them knew the “ugly” me. 

They only knew my “pretty” side: the cute bubbly Georgia peach. They saw me as a high achieving student, a dedicated gymnast and crossfitter, a fun sorority girl, and a passionate RUF leader. And the select few I let in, only saw glimpses of my reality that I quickly minimized. Although I was all those things, there was a whole secret life I was living, which was the farthest thing from pretty. I was ashamed of my eating disorder and did everything possible to hide it.

But in treatment, I couldn’t hide anymore. As hard as I tried—I even told my therapist my life was none of her business (sorry, Ally)—I no longer could wrap my life in a pretty bow. Not within the doors of Monte Nido. Slowly but surely, I allowed myself to be vulnerable. It is the hardest, scariest thing for me to do. Still. But because of this vulnerability, I have formed a family. I am no longer alone.

I have therapists who listen to how hard it is, who challenge my eating disorder voice, who help me see new perspectives. I have friends who join along side me in recovery. They hold me as tears stream down my face while we sit and talk on the beach. They take me to get donuts when I’ve planned to never eat again. They remind me why I am doing this in the first place. And my friends see me even when I have lost sight of who I am outside my eating disorder.

This process is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and yet I know I have a family cheering me on. My parents and siblings, my friends from all phases of life, my therapists, and I’m sure many more. So even though it’s hard, at least I’m not doing this alone anymore.

This family reminds me how blessed I am. They point me towards the love of God and display His grace every day. Reminding me I am worthy through Christ, my family lifts me up from the depth of my raging eating disorder. I never have to be alone again.

So in response to the guy sitting next to me in church, I don’t just have friends, I have a whole family. 

The Two Paths.

Sometimes I feel like living in recovery isn’t any better than living in my eating disorder. Sometimes it feels a lot harder—the lies about my body, food, exercise, self-worth are all still here; yet, I’m choosing not to listen to them. Sometimes it seems easier to just give in and stop fighting all together. At times like this, I have to remember:

There are two paths in front of me.

The one that is familiar and known is my eating disorder. It is alluring. It is enticing. It seems like the less strenuous path. However, I know where this path leads. It dead-ends leaving me alone, depressed, and dying. I know there is no potential for good that comes from my eating disorder. I’ve been there, I’ve done that, and I’ve gained evidence that is not the life I want to live.

The second path is unknown. It is just being paved with each step I take. I can’t see what lies ahead of the hills. I don’t recognize the twists and turns. But at least this path has potential for good. And for now, I have to hold onto that hope.

I’m clenching onto the hope that the chatter from behind trying to convince me to change paths will cease as I continue to move forward. I’m gripping onto the hope that this path is jam-packed with grace for each time I stumble or take a few steps backward. I’m not letting go of the hope that there is a finish line at the end of this road.

The in between of recovery, of no longer wanting my eating disorder and not yet being recovered, is like climbing Mt. Everest. But I cannot lose hope. There are many times where I’ve cried out and asked God why—why me, why an eating disorder, why such the struggle. So many times in this past month I have begged God for some peace and quiet from my own torturous thoughts.

But amidst those nights, I also see little glimmers of my hope coming to life. Moments of singing my favorite song at an amazing Ben Rector concert (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2fFKKkcx70). Of standing in awe at the beautiful coast of California. Of meeting Mickey in the most magical place on earth. Of getting lost in a good book (I’m joining the Harry Potter clan, and I got sorted into Hufflepuff)—these moments remind me to continue forward. They remind me that there is freedom from my eating disorder.

So I will trek on, and I will not lose hope.

The Life to be Desired

Today marks the first day of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. Through my recovery, I have grown a passion for advocating for eating disorder recovery and awareness. In today’s society, eating disorders are glorified. Women (and men) are praised for doing a detox, cutting out carbs, forcing themselves to work out, and losing weight. But let me tell you first hand, an eating disorder is far from desirable. 

I was tortured every moment by my own mind. No matter how many pounds I lost, my eating disorder told me that the number on the scale was too high. No matter how rigidly I restricted my food, my eating disorder convinced me I was consuming too many calories. No matter how hard and long I exercised, my eating disorder pushed me to work out harder. And no matter how many times I purged my food, my eating disorder whispered one more. 

That life is full of misery, shame, and self-hatred. That life is not something to be glorified.

What should be glorified is recovery. 

Every day I wake up hearing the same lies I heard in my eating disorder, but now I am choosing to act differently. I am choosing to eat even when I feel awful in my body. I am choosing not to exercise even when I am want to numb out my emotions. I am choosing not to throw up even when I am flooded with more feelings than what seems to be tolerable. That, my friend, should be praised.

And sometimes, I don’t choose to act differently. Sometimes, I listen to the lies of my eating disorder and start to beat myself up for having a slip. But the difference is now I don’t stop at the shame. I talk back and remind myself of compassion and grace. I reach out to my treatment team and friends when I can’t find the words for myself. By fighting back despite using a behavior, I grow stronger in my recovery until one day recovery becomes recovered. 

So next time you catch yourself glorifying the diet culture that undermines the true struggles of an eating disorder, remind yourself of the girl, or boy, or me! who is fighting each day, turning to grace over shame, and winning the battle over the eating disorder. That is the life worthy of praise.

A Galentine's Letter

To My Best Friend,

Lilly Beil, You were there before I knew I had a problem. You loved me despite the fact that I was wasting away not only physically, but emotionally. I can’t imagine how helpless you felt when I was disappearing before your eyes even though I believed I was fine.

You were the first person I called when my therapist said I wouldn’t be able to go back to college if I didn’t gain weight. You cried with me. You told me it would be ok. You reminded me to take refuge in God’s ultimate grace.

When I convinced my therapist to let me go back to school my sophomore year, you stood by my side. You never gave up on me though I was giving up on myself. You were with me as I sunk into deep depression. Even when I bailed on our spring break trip, you lovingly understood. You were the only person I had the courage to tell that I wasn’t going to come back to school after spring break. Again, we cried. We cried because I was in so much pain. We cried because we couldn’t finish the year together. We cried because this disease took such a toll on our friendship.

My junior year, we lived together. You sat by me when we ate out with friends knowing that I was silently suffering over the meal. Even when I put on an act that I was all-better, you spent nights listening to me about the suffering I was still enduring. Despite the struggles I encountered, you helped me see small glimpses of joy in life. I clung to the times when we would hang out because for a brief moment I was free from my eating disorder. You gave me hope that life was bigger than my disorder.

When you studied abroad, your journey was an encouragement. Although you may not know it, your pictures and blog motivated me to want recovery. I wanted to travel and see the beauty of the world, and I knew I could only do that if I let go of my eating disorder.

And when you came back, I told you I was going to treatment. Neither of us knew what that meant, but you said we would face the unknown together. You consistently wrote me letters. We shared our struggles, but also our joys. I am grateful that you didn’t see me as weak or fragile, but strong in being able to face my eating disorder head on. You shared with me how your summer was going which was so helpful when all I saw was my eating disorder.

You’ve stood by my side forever and always. I was filled with joy when I was able to surprise you for your birthday. For the first time in such a long time, I was healthy enough to be spontaneous. You also tried to see my perspective as I explained that I was not all better just yet. Again, we cried. We cried because we don’t understand why I have this disease. We cried because we both know how hard it is to continue a friendship despite such an overwhelming illness. We cried because we have lost so much time together because of this awful disease.

Through it all, I have known I could rely on our friendship. Moving forward, I firmly believe that we will always be there for each other. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and I am excited to see all what lies ahead for our friendship. Through think and thin our love for each other runs deep. Thank you for all you have done for me!

Much Love. Forever and Always.