When Healthy Became Harmful: A Therapist’s Experience of Restriction, Overtraining and Losing Trust in My Body
As a therapist, I’m used to helping people explore their relationship with themselves. I spend my days encouraging others to challenge unhelpful beliefs, listen to their emotions, and respond to their needs with compassion. What I’ve learned the hard way is that having professional knowledge doesn’t make you immune to struggle.
For a long time, I believed I was simply committed to my health. Looking back, I can see I was slowly developing a relationship with food and exercise that was becoming increasingly rigid, anxiety-driven, and harmful.
The reason I want to share this story is because I know how easy it is to miss the warning signs. What happened to me didn’t look like an eating disorder. I wasn’t trying to make myself ill. I wasn’t consciously restricting because I hated my body. I wanted to be healthy. That’s what made it so difficult to recognise.
It Started With Good Intentions
Like many people, I became interested in nutrition and fitness because I wanted to feel stronger and healthier. I started following fitness accounts on social media, reading nutrition advice, listening to podcasts, and consuming endless content about what I should and shouldn’t be eating.
Initially, much of the advice seemed sensible. Eat more whole foods. Reduce ultra-processed foods. Be mindful of excessive sugar consumption. Increase protein. Exercise regularly. There was nothing inherently wrong with any of those messages.
The problem wasn’t where I started. The problem was where those messages eventually led me.
Without really noticing it, I began absorbing more extreme ideas about food. Certain foods were portrayed as healthy while others were presented as harmful. Carbohydrates were frequently criticised. Cutting things out was praised. Restriction was framed as discipline. Over time, I began to internalise those beliefs.
The Rules Became More Important Than My Body
What started as an interest in nutrition gradually became a set of rules. I found myself becoming increasingly fearful of carbohydrates. Rice disappeared from my plate. Potatoes disappeared. Bread disappeared. Many foods I had enjoyed for years suddenly felt “wrong.”
Protein became the safest option because it was consistently promoted as the superior choice. At the time, I genuinely believed I was making healthy decisions. What I didn’t realise was that I was becoming increasingly disconnected from my body’s needs.
Food was no longer simply food. Every meal became a decision about whether I was being “good” or “bad.” I thought about food far more than I realised. I analysed meals. I questioned my choices. I worried about whether foods fitted the rules I had created.
Because nobody challenged these behaviours, I assumed they were healthy. In fact, many people applauded them. People often compliment discipline. They rarely see the anxiety behind it.
Then Exercise Became Part of the Problem
Alongside the food restriction came increasingly intense exercise habits. Again, it didn’t happen overnight. It happened gradually.
An extra workout here. A longer session there. Pushing through fatigue. Ignoring muscle soreness. Training when I was exhausted. Training when I didn’t want to. Training because resting made me feel guilty.
At the time I saw it as dedication. Now I understand it differently. The exercise was no longer entirely about enjoyment or wellbeing. Part of it was driven by fear. Fear of losing progress. Fear of gaining weight. Fear of not doing enough. Fear of letting go of control.
One of the most difficult things about overtraining is that society often rewards it. People admire commitment. People celebrate pushing yourself. People may even describe it as inspirational. What they don’t see is the exhaustion, the anxiety, or the inability to stop.
My Body Started Sending Warning Signs
Eventually, my body started telling me that something wasn’t right. My energy levels dropped. Recovery became harder. I felt increasingly preoccupied with food. Most significantly, my menstrual cycle became irregular and eventually stopped altogether.
As a therapist, this should have concerned me immediately. But when you’re caught up in these patterns, insight isn’t always enough. I found ways to explain it. I minimised it. I convinced myself it wasn’t a big deal.
The reality was that my body was telling me something important. Women’s bodies require sufficient energy availability to support essential functions including hormone production, reproduction, recovery, cognition, and overall health. My body wasn’t receiving what it needed.
Instead of hearing that message, I continued trying to be more disciplined. Looking back, that period makes me feel incredibly sad. I had become so focused on controlling my body that I had stopped caring for it.
The Wellness Culture Conversation We Need To Have
One of the reasons I believe these experiences are becoming increasingly common is because many disordered behaviours are disguised as wellness.
Restriction can look like “clean eating.” Food fear can look like “being healthy.” Overtraining can look like motivation. Ignoring hunger can look like willpower.
Many people who develop difficult relationships with food don’t set out to become unwell. They often begin by trying to improve their health.
That’s why conversations around eating disorders need to extend beyond weight and appearance. The psychological relationship with food matters. The emotional impact matters. The amount of mental space food occupies matters. The ability to be flexible matters.
We should be asking ourselves questions such as:
- Do I feel anxious when I eat certain foods?
- Have I removed entire food groups from my diet?
- Do I feel guilty when I rest?
- Does exercise feel compulsory?
- Is food taking up too much space in my mind?
- Have my rules around eating become increasingly rigid?
These questions are often more revealing than any number on a scale.
As a Therapist, I See Similar Stories Every Day
My experience is far from unique. Many of the individuals I work with have similar stories. They’re not necessarily trying to lose weight. They’re not all diagnosed with eating disorders. But many are trapped in cycles of restriction, compensation, guilt, and perfectionism.
Some fear carbohydrates. Others fear eating socially. Many have lost touch with hunger and fullness cues. Some feel unable to take a rest day. Others believe their worth depends upon productivity, achievement, or appearance.
At the heart of many of these struggles is the same painful message: “I am only okay if I am in control.”
The difficulty is that bodies don’t thrive under constant control. Bodies need flexibility. Bodies need nourishment. Bodies need rest. Bodies need trust.
Recovery Has Been Harder Than Restriction
One of the biggest misconceptions about recovery is that it simply involves eating more. In reality, recovery requires rebuilding trust.
For me, that has meant learning to eat carbohydrates without fear. Learning that bloating doesn’t mean something is wrong. Learning that resting is not laziness. Learning that my body deserves nourishment regardless of whether I’ve exercised. Learning to respond to hunger instead of ignoring it.
Most importantly, it has meant accepting uncertainty. Rules create a temporary sense of safety. Letting go of those rules can feel terrifying.
However, healing often begins when we stop asking how to control our bodies and start asking what our bodies need. That shift has been one of the most difficult and transformative experiences of my life.
A Final Thought
If there’s one thing I hope people take away from my story, it’s this:
Not all eating difficulties begin with a desire to be thin. Sometimes they begin with a desire to be healthy. Sometimes they begin with a fitness goal. Sometimes they begin with a social media post. Sometimes they begin with praise for “discipline.”
Health should not require you to ignore your body’s signals. Health should not make you fear food. Health should not leave you physically depleted or emotionally consumed by rules.
True wellbeing is not found in restriction. It is found in balance, flexibility, nourishment, rest, and self-compassion.
Recovery is hard. There is no point pretending otherwise. It asks us to let go of the very behaviours that once made us feel safe and in control. It requires courage, patience, and a willingness to sit with discomfort while we learn a new way of relating to food, exercise, and ourselves.
But as difficult as recovery can be, I have come to realise that the alternative is even harder. Living with constant food rules, anxiety around eating, guilt when resting, and feeling disconnected from your own body comes at a huge cost. Recovery offers something those behaviours never could: freedom.
I am choosing to commit to this journey, even on the days when it feels uncomfortable, because I know there is more waiting for me on the other side than simply a healthier relationship with food. There is peace, flexibility, connection, and the opportunity to truly live rather than constantly manage and control.
If you recognise yourself in any part of my story, I hope you will find the courage to take that first step too. Recovery does not have to be a lonely journey. Support exists, healing is possible, and no matter how stuck you may feel right now, change can happen. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is ask for help and allow others to walk alongside us as we find our way back to ourselves.
