
My story
I was fourteen when I developed an eating disorder.
From the outside, nothing was wrong. A loving family, good grades, a sport I adored. But something had moved in. Meals got longer. Silences got heavier. My parents watched me slip away, and they didn't have the words for it. Neither did I.
I was hospitalized. When I came home, I wasn't better, and the house had changed. My parents did everything they could and tried every kind of medical support. What they couldn't do was see inside my head. And I couldn't let them in. Month after month, the distance between us grew, at the same table, under the same roof.
Finding my balance took years. So did finding my way back to my family. Along the way I understood what would have helped me, and what would have helped them: fewer battles about the plate, more words for the fear behind it. Someone to translate.
That's what I do now. I sit with parents who are where mine were.
Nina

