Could you tell me a time you forgave yourself?

Looking in a mirror, what do you see? I remember the first time I looked into a mirror not recognising the woman looking back at me. The way I looked and felt, both inside and out, a dichotomy to the person I had once been. Becoming a stranger in my own skin had happened naturally, gradually, until one day, I was just…gone.

It was the day I had been looking forward to. A goal I couldn’t wait to meet. As the scales flashed the magic numbers, I felt like I had accomplished something big that I had been working towards for years. Joy, happiness and then…sadness. A look in the mirror, a moment of reflection and I was drowning in the magnitude of the moment. My mind racing, should there be a new goal? What should it be? How long until I get there? The momentary happiness stalled with anxiety asking my reflection where does this end?

The tears came next, I worried they would never stop. Sitting in the shower longing for the water to wash them away and bring clarity. The shower turned off; the tears didn’t. I knew this was all wrong. Every celebrated showing rib or collarbone, elation over walking more steps than the previous day and excitement over continually limiting carbohydrate intake was the true reflection of what I had become. Restrictive eating had snuck up on me slowly before pushing its way into every aspect of my life.

The fear I had when someone asked me out to dinner or drinks. Body checking myself in every shop window or mirror. Religiously tracking my food and drink intake down to the last gram. Relishing the compliments and the numbers reducing on my clothes, to be honest, I liked the attention. I had normalised it all. How had I normalised it all?

It was like my brain had suddenly caught up with my body. The passivity of my actions now dominated my thoughts. I understood what was happening, but did I really want to leave the toxicity of this cycle? A cycle which both made me hate the skin in which I inhabited yet push myself to become a ‘better version’. The compliments which I once enjoyed hearing had begun to turn bitter, how could I be congratulated for destroying myself? The clothes sizes lost their meaning when kids clothes fitted better, and the tracking slowed to a few glasses of wine or a slice of toast in a day. Yet, it continued.

I guess, lockdown may have been what saved me from, well, me. I had to face myself and my actions, there was no other option. I didn’t think anybody else was going to help me. I felt embarrassed of what I had become. Being forced to stay still for the first time in years helped me reconnect to myself, becoming more aware of my body and self and exploring the true meaning of happiness and worth and what these meant to me.

Around a year after the initial realisation of the extent of my restrictive eating, I started talking. At first, to my mum and partner then eventually to friends and family. Forcing myself to be honest with those closest to me helped me to become more open and honest with myself. In return, I began recognising destructive patterns clearly and navigating my mindset towards a more positive relationship with food, starting to forgive myself for my actions.

I began journaling, a way to traverse through my thoughts and a passageway towards apologising to myself. I stopped tracking my food intake and treating the gym as a punishment, instead, I make intuitive eating choices and use the gym to grow my body and mindset. Two and a half years later and it has been a difficult journey. A negative voice still appears in my head from time to time and that’s okay. I wear baggy jumpers on days I am not feeling it and do things that make me feel good.

Gradually, I have become less fearful of the woman in the mirror and the voice in my head as the two find harmony with one another. I know who the woman is now. She is strong and resilient, and I forgive her.