The family story about me that has enthralled me most has to do with my thighs. My mother says that the nurses who cared for me in the hospital nursery would pick up my newborn legs and laugh about the immense size of my thighs--far too big for an average-weight baby, they chided. Eventually, this disproportion led to body-shaming nicknames, like Thunder Thighs and Drumstick. On the one hand, I embraced their abundance. They were thick and powerful and helped me easily press double my weight in the gym.

In college, I found comfort in something I could control. I found comfort in something that allowed me to get on a higher platform in running. I dropped my time by four seconds in one year and for the 800 meters, that was a lot. I was on the record-breaking DMR team that went to nationals. I was working out with the best women. On the outside, I was the “perfect” athlete. I was overly-committed and working out all the time. I gained momentum from all the comments on how “good” or “lean” I looked. I was definitely in denial and I hid it well to those on the outside.

It is a widely-known, yet little-talked-about fact that trauma in childhood can lead to the development of unhealthy and potentially-fatal coping behaviors such as eating disorders. Until a few years ago, I never spoke a word about the abuse that I had endured in my household, as well as the disordered behaviors I lived with for most of my life as a result. 

For the longest time, I did not let anyone in. If anyone asked how I was doing, I would just say, "I'm fine," and they’d stop asking. Now, I’m vocal about my mental health struggles; I’m no longer hiding, and I’m no longer silent.

My first diet was in second grade, and I remember the day clearly. I had overheard a family friend urge my mom to take me for regular, brisk walks in the neighborhood. Her message was clear: I was chubby and needed to lose weight. I felt embarrassed and internalized her words to mean that I was not good enough. That marked the beginning of my issues with food. 

Recovery from an eating disorder takes a team. That’s why we’re working with Instagram and Project Heal on the #RecoveryHeroes campaign to celebrate all of the people who make recovery possible.

So, we want to hear from you! Who supported you on your journey to recovery? Who do you want to thank for all of their love and inspiration? Join the conversation and help us celebrate the people behind the scenes who make healing possible!

How to Participate:

I was 15 years old, the sun was shining, and I had just come home from school when my sister told me that she had an eating disorder. The memory remains vivid in my mind. I remember how saddened I was that I had not realized she was suffering. I remember the tears of relief she cried that she was no longer carrying this secret on her own. I remember the fear in her eyes as she contemplated treatment. Most of all, I remember my shock when she told me that she had been experiencing symptoms for more than three years. And no one knew.

Valentine’s Day can be a tough holiday, especially when you’re single, having a difficult time with friends, feeling disconnected from community or struggling with disordered eating. But here’s the good news: you can transform your Valentine’s Day to be a day of celebration! And here’s how:

1. Write your damn self a love note.

When was the last time that you explicitly expressed how much you appreciate yourself?

“Monthly Matters with Melody” is a monthly advice column by Dr. Melody Moore, a clinical psychologist, yoga instructor and the founder of the Embody Love Movement Foundation. Her foundation is a non-profit whose mission is to empower girls and women to celebrate their inner beauty, commit to kindness and contribute to meaningful change in the world. Dr. Moore is a social entrepreneur who trains facilitators on how to teach programs to prevent negative body image and remind girls and women of their inherent worth.

After I left treatment, I felt like a misfit. I remember standing in the cereal aisle at the grocery store, completely frozen, unable to think or speak. My eyes slowly moved from box to box as I desperately tried to pick a cereal that didn’t scare me, that wasn’t a threat, that didn’t feel like “too much.” The harder I tried to decide, the more scared and nauseous I became.