'From the age of 10, my relationship with food controlled my life. It almost killed me.'

Content warning: This article includes descriptions of disordered eating and may be triggering for some readers.

I was never overly conscious about what I ate as a child. Growing up, I was a competitive dancer and my relationship with food was one of intuition and free will.

I remember waking up late one Sunday, marching downstairs and pulling the buttermilk pancake mix I’d been craving off the cupboard shelf. I had ‘perfected’ the recipe - I threw a thick slab of butter into the saucepan and watched it bubble, before pouring the pre-made mix into three perfect circles. I’d serve them on a single plate, each covered in Nutella and maple syrup.

Perfect.

As I began to devour them, my family were greeting a guest who had stopped by. I mumbled a quick, "hello!" between mouthfuls.

"Are you eating that for breakfast at 1pm?" they responded.

I laughed; they exchanged shocked looks before exiting. I glanced back down at my half-eaten plate with a new feeling: guilt. 

I doubt their comment intended to provoke such a cynical reaction from a 10-year-old, but it did. 

Over the following years, I became more aware of how food affected my life. I became less active and was told to eat 'healthier'. 

More protein, no carbohydrates. No more milky coffees or any other flavoured beverages. Meal plans and eight-week “diet-detox challenges” ruled everything that entered my mouth. 

Those Sunday pancakes were replaced with Greek yoghurt and berries (no honey - too much sugar) and black coffee (pure caffeine only). 

And I followed the rules. God forbid I enjoy myself and have that jumbo cookie I had been eyeing off at Coles... No, I needed to be 'good'. Which meant I needed to lose weight. 

That small hunch of guilt soon guided each and every one of my actions, especially in relation to food. I lived in fear of that guilt, in fear of gaining weight, in fear of eating.

Losing weight gave me an overwhelming sense of control and success. In hindsight, it’s obvious that I was unhappy, but at the time I was ignorant of how I genuinely felt. It was hard to notice anything when my main concern was this sense of accomplishment I felt as the number on the scale dropped. 

My weight was all I was worth.

And I got compliments left, right and centre. How slim I looked. How healthy I seemed. How proud I should be of myself.

That was until my doctor looked at me one day, holding a sheet of paper covered in medical jargon.

He inhaled deeply: “If we don’t admit you to the hospital, you are going to die.”

I glanced at my parents, their eyes filled with worry and dread, as I tried to comprehend what I had just been told. I couldn’t believe it. 

Not because I was taken aback by how serious my illness was - but because I was living under the completely false pretence that I didn’t have an illness at all. 

In this episode of No Filter, Mia Freedman speaks to a mother whose child has anorexia. Story continues after audio.

Then came my formal diagnosis: Anorexia Nervosa.

After that, I can just remember the hospital bed - laying there severely malnourished, machines and monitors attached to various points of my body. 

My struggle with Anorexia Nervosa was, above all else, isolating. 

The longer I struggled, the more aspects of myself seemed to fade - I was a shell of the girl I once was. Instead of teenage years of exploration, friendships and opportunities, I got hospitalisations, 24/7 care and a loss of my identity.

But there was still good around me.

The love in my mum’s eyes. My dog as he slept on my lap. My sister's laugh. The warmth of my dad’s hug. My friends' continual support. The sun on my skin.

It was within these ordinary moments that I found my reason to live and to fight. 

Recovering from anorexia is the hardest thing I have ever done. 

Neglecting each and every rule I have adopted feels inexplicably wrong. But slowly I am accepting that my worth is far more important than my weight, or any other aspect of my life. 

I’m so proud of how far I’ve come from the hollow girl who sat in that hospital ward. And on some level, I am grateful for my eating disorder - it’s alarming to think that my life and that state of unhappiness would have stayed without such a profound intervention. 

And while recovery is a journey I’m still facing, I am humbled by all I have learnt this far. 

Control is overrated. I am so much more than my body. Food never is, or was, my enemy. And above all else, I am worthy of life.

I hope that one day I can enjoy those Sunday pancakes again, just as my 10-year-old self did. And I am spending every waking second working towards honouring her.

For help and support for eating disorders, contact the Butterfly Foundation’s National Support line and online service on 1800 ED HOPE (1800 33 4673).

Feature image: Getty.