If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that eating disorders are rarely about food. Mine definitely wasn’t. At eighteen, I was trying to survive my first term at university — new city, new course, new everything — and I was already overwhelmed before anything even happened. Then I went through something traumatic, and my whole system just… shut down.

I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling. I didn’t have the emotional vocabulary, or the confidence, or the safety to say “I’m not okay”. So my body said it for me. My appetite disappeared. Eating became impossible. And I didn’t understand why.

At the time, I thought I was just “failing” at coping. Now I know it was a trauma response — my nervous system going into survival mode.

When people think of eating disorders, they often imagine they’re about weight or appearance. But for some of us, they’re actually about:

• overwhelm
• shutdown
• trauma
• sensory overload
• losing the ability to recognise internal signals

In my case, my brain was trying to protect me. When the body feels unsafe, appetite can switch off. It’s not a choice. It’s not stubbornness. It’s biology.

I had several admissions under the Mental Health Act. They kept me safe, which mattered, but the focus was always on the behaviour — the eating — not the reason behind it. No one asked the question that would have changed everything:

“What happened to you?”

Instead, it was always “Why won’t you eat?”

And honestly, I didn’t know the answer.

It wasn’t until I was placed in a care home and had weekly therapy that someone finally helped me make sense of it. That’s when recovery actually began.

Therapy also led to something I never saw coming: learning I’m autistic.

Suddenly, so many things clicked into place:

• why I shut down under stress
• why I couldn’t express distress verbally
• why sensory overwhelm made eating harder
• why hunger cues felt “missing”
• why routines mattered so much

Autism doesn’t cause eating disorders, but it absolutely shapes how someone experiences food, stress, and internal signals. Understanding this helped me stop blaming myself for things that were never about willpower.

Eventually, my diagnosis was changed to ARFID — Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. And honestly, it was like someone finally handed me the right map.

ARFID can be linked to:

• sensory sensitivities
• trauma
• anxiety
• difficulty recognising hunger
• feeling unsafe around food or eating

It’s not driven by body image. It’s about safety, overwhelm, and the nervous system. Once I understood that, everything that had felt confusing suddenly made sense.

Recovery wasn’t a straight line. It wasn’t a movie montage. It was slow, messy, and full of tiny steps that didn’t look like progress until I looked back.

But it did happen.

And now?

Now I’m studying for a master’s in occupational therapy — something I once genuinely thought I’d never be well enough to do. I’ve found things that regulate me and bring me joy: music, concerts, sewing, crochet, crafting. Things that make me feel grounded and connected and alive.

My relationship with food is still shaped by my history, but it’s no longer controlled by it. I understand myself now. That makes all the difference.

If You’re Struggling, Here’s What I Want You To Know

• Your body might be expressing distress before you have the words.
• Trauma can silence hunger.
• Autism can shape how you experience food and stress.
• ARFID is real, valid, and deserves proper support.
• Recovery is possible — not by forcing yourself to “just eat”, but by understanding the reasons underneath.

You’re not failing. You’re surviving. And you deserve support that sees the whole of you.