Not everything that looks like control is healthy and not everything that looks like coping is.

I have recently been diagnosed with an eating disorder, and it felt like the last thing that would ever happen to me. I didn’t think I was “that kind of person”. I was a professional, a leader, someone people came to for help. I was used to supporting others, not being the person who needed support.

What I didn’t expect was how difficult it would be to recognise what was happening, or how much of my life had quietly become controlled by something I didn’t fully understand.

This is my story.

Over the past year or so, I have been navigating a combination of personal challenges, health issues and everyday pressures. Like many people, I kept going. I showed up for work, for family and for friends. On the surface, I looked like I was coping.

But coping isn’t always the same as being okay.

For me, my struggles began to show up through my relationship with food and exercise. What initially looked like healthy habits slowly became something much more complicated. Life felt overwhelming and I wanted to regain a sense of control. Restricting food and exercising gave me that feeling, at least temporarily.

It started with the best intentions. I wanted to be healthier. I wanted to be better. I wanted to be the best version of myself for everyone around me, as through all my struggles I had lost myself.

But gradually these behaviours became harder to switch off.

I convinced myself I was in control.

I wasn’t.

The difficult thing about eating disorders is that they can hide in plain sight. People commented on my weight loss and those comments reinforced what I was doing. Later, when people became concerned and told me I looked tired or unwell, somehow that reinforced it too.

No comment ever felt neutral.

The eating disorder could twist almost anything into evidence that I should keep going.

Looking back, I can see that it was never really about food.

It was about self-worth.

It was about anxiety.

It was about my needing compassion.

It was about trying to manage difficult emotions in the only way I knew how.

A bad day, criticism, a mistake, letting someone down, or simply feeling like I wasn’t enough could trigger a relentless inner voice.

“You’ve failed.”

“You’re not good enough.”

“You don’t deserve to eat.”

That voice became louder over time.

If I restricted food and exercised, it told me I was strong and disciplined. If I ate normally, it told me I was weak.

Living with that constant internal battle is exhausting. It’s like carrying around a critic who never takes a day off.

The reality is that eating disorders aren’t simply about food. For many people, they are deeply connected to anxiety, perfectionism, low self-esteem and the need to feel in control when everything else feels uncertain.

One thing that surprised me after my diagnosis was how many assumptions still exist about eating disorders, people still didn’t understand what I was going through.

Like many people, I had assumptions too.

I imagined teenagers. Young girls. People who looked obviously unwell.

I certainly didn’t imagine someone like me.

I’m an adult. I’m established in my career. I’m a wife, a daughter, a colleague and a leader. I’m also part of the LGBTQ+ community.

Because I didn’t fit the stereotype, I struggled to recognise what was happening. I told myself I was stressed. Overwhelmed. Trying to be healthier. Going through a difficult period.

I could always find another explanation.

I think this is one of the reasons eating disorders can go unnoticed for so long. We still have a tendency to associate them with a very narrow image, when the reality is that they affect people of all ages, backgrounds, genders and identities.

As an LGBTQ+ person, I know there have been times in my life where I’ve felt pressure to belong, pressure to be accepted and pressure to feel enough. While everyone’s experience is different, I believe those experiences can shape how we see ourselves and our worth. When that combines with anxiety, perfectionism and a need for control, it can become part of a much bigger struggle.

Eating disorders don’t have a type.

And neither do the people living with them.

The isolation was one of the hardest parts.

Even when I was surrounded by people, I felt completely alone.

I felt embarrassed about what I was experiencing and ashamed that I couldn’t simply stop and be better for everyone and the old me they desperately wanted back. I withdrew from conversations and avoided situations where I felt vulnerable. The more isolated I became, the more powerful the eating disorder felt.

I remember sitting in meetings feeling completely disconnected from everyone around me. I felt like an outsider looking in, unable to concentrate because the noise in my head was so overwhelming and no one understood l.

At my lowest point, anxiety was with me constantly.

It wasn’t just worry. It was a relentless feeling of fear and uncertainty that influenced how I thought, how I behaved and how I connected with other people.

What I needed most during that time wasn’t advice or solutions.

I needed understanding.

I needed patience.

I needed consistency.

One aspect of eating disorders that isn’t talked about enough is the impact they have on work.

I continued showing up. I attended meetings, fulfilled responsibilities and tried to maintain the professional image people expected from me. From the outside, I probably looked like I was coping.

Inside, I was exhausted.

The anxiety, self-criticism and constant mental noise affected my confidence and sense of belonging. I was spending so much energy fighting a battle in my own head that there was often little left for anything else.

What made it harder was that many people don’t immediately associate eating disorders with mental health and wellbeing. There can be an assumption that the issue is simply food, weight or appearance, when the reality is often much more complex.

Through this experience, I’ve reflected a lot on psychological safety.

As a leader, I have always believed in creating environments where people feel able to speak up and ask for help. What I’ve learned is that psychological safety isn’t just about whether someone feels able to talk.

It’s about what happens after they do.

Being honest about my wellbeing felt incredibly vulnerable. Not because people didn’t care, but because I wasn’t sure how my honesty would be received. When you’re already struggling with feelings of failure, rejection and not being good enough, uncertainty can feel overwhelming.

Looking back, the support that helped most wasn’t necessarily the biggest intervention.

It was consistency.

It was knowing who I could talk to.

It was having regular check-ins.

It was people showing up, even when I found it difficult to engage.

It was being treated as a person rather than a problem to solve.

This experience has changed how I think about wellbeing at work. Policies matter. Processes matter. But human connection matters much more.

People experiencing an eating disorder don’t need colleagues to fix them or focus on what’s not going well currently. They need understanding, compassion and consistency. They need to know they can be struggling and still be valued.

Because behind every job title, every professional responsibility and every seemingly capable person, there is a human being. Sometimes that human being is carrying far more than anyone realises.

Eventually, I spoke to my GP and was referred to First Steps ED.

That referral became an important turning point for me.

For the first time, I began to understand that what I was experiencing wasn’t simply a lack of willpower or a bad habit. It was an eating disorder.

Having support available for both me and my loved ones made a huge difference. Eating disorders affect far more than the individual experiencing them. They affect partners, families and friends too, and helping them understand what is happening can be incredibly valuable.

Recovery hasn’t been a straight line. In fact, it’s often felt more like a rollercoaster.

There are times when I’ve resisted support, pushed people away or convinced myself I didn’t need help. Pride played a role in that. So did fear.

I was used to being the helper, not the person needing support.

Being vulnerable felt uncomfortable.

Trusting other people felt uncomfortable.

But recovery requires both.

Some of the people who helped me most weren’t necessarily the people with all the answers. They were the people who stayed.

The people who sent a message.

The people who called.

The people who checked in consistently.

The people who celebrated the small victories and saw the good in me.

“You got through that meeting.”

“You made it through that.”

“You asked for help.”

When your confidence has been stripped away, those moments matter more than you can imagine.

Recovery has also taught me the importance of self-compassion.

For a long time, I blamed myself for developing an eating disorder. I saw it as a personal failure.

Now I understand it differently.

This isn’t about blame.

It’s about understanding.

It’s about recognising how easily struggles can become hidden behind achievement, responsibility and the appearance of coping.

Most importantly, it’s about recognising that recovery is possible.

Today, I’m still rebuilding my relationship with food and on my hour of recovery.

I’m still learning.

I’m still challenging that critical voice when it appears.

But things are different.

The rollercoaster hasn’t completely stopped, but it has slowed down.

And I’m no longer riding it alone.

I have support around me.

I have people who understand.

I have tools and strategies that help me manage difficult days.

Most importantly, I have hope.

That’s one of the reasons I wanted to share my story.

For a long time, I didn’t seek help because I didn’t see myself represented in conversations about eating disorders. I wasn’t a teenager. I wasn’t visibly unwell. I didn’t fit the stereotype.

The truth is that eating disorders affect people of all ages, backgrounds and identities.

There are people who care.

There is support available.

And asking for help is not a sign of weakness.

In many ways, it’s one of the bravest things we can do.

First Steps ED gave me a place to start when I didn’t know where to turn, and for that I will always be grateful.

Recovery isn’t about becoming a different person.

It’s about reconnecting with who you are beneath the eating disorder.

For me, that journey is still ongoing, but I am moving forward.

One step at a time.