Sometimes I'm more aware than I'd like to be

It's Eating Disorders Awareness Week, and I have a few thoughts

CW: ED / Published February 2025, updated February 2026

This week is Eating Disorders Awareness Week, and if you didn’t already know that, consider yourself lucky. Because I, personally, would love to be–ha–a little less aware. But here we are.

I’ve been quite open about my experience with an eating disorder for over a decade now (funnily enough, I first went public with it in Teen Vogue in 2012), and I often wonder what, if anything, else I can say that might possibly reach someone in their place of need, or help move the conversation forward. It’s such a sensitive, vexing, deeply unsexy topic, and now more than ever I worry that something I share could have the capacity to be more harmful than helpful. But I also know there is no such thing as a perfect advocate, and in the case of these incredibly isolating disorders, showing up imperfectly might be better than not showing up at all. So, I will continue to keep offering my perspective, for what it’s worth. (That might be nothing, and that might be something. Take from it what you will.)

I’ve been a member of a Club I never wanted to be a part of since childhood: I was just seven years old when I first began dipping my toe into the treacherous waters of an ED. Seven, a baby! Of course, I didn’t know it then–no one did. In fact, it wasn’t until I was 19 or 20 when I finally began to recognize that I had a problem, and even longer to accept help (I was also extremely adept at hiding it). If my memory serves me, my friends stepped in, my school stepped in, and I was given the ultimatum of seeking treatment or taking a semester off. I chose the former. Begrudgingly.

This was in 2010, when treatment options were quite sparse. My parents took me to the University of Chicago Hospital, where they, at least at the time, had a renowned research program. The team evaluated me and recommended I come in for treatment several times per week, about a 90-minute drive from my college campus in South Bend, Indiana. It was going to be a commitment, of course, but in the absence of other options, I obliged. (Again, begrudgingly.)

Thomas de Pange, Comtesse de La Tour-Mauborg detail, 1841.

That was in December, and I was supposed to start treatment in mid-January when I returned from Christmas break. Things had gotten pretty dire, and I was warming up to the idea of treatment, with the cautious hope I might start to feel better, at least physically. I wouldn’t have admitted it then, but I was scared, although simultaneously convinced it was not that bad (a hallmark of the disorder). I was under the false impression it–or rather, I–would be a quick fix. What I didn’t yet realize was that I was, in fact, in it for the long haul, and that it would be a thing in need of constant fixing. Even still.

Soon after returning to campus, I decided to visit a friend in Chicago over a long weekend. On the drive there, I passed out at the wheel. What followed were full-blown panic attacks anytime I would even so much consider the thought of driving on a highway again, even though I loved my car, a little white Corolla named Donatella (after Donatella Versace, natch). So seeking treatment in Chicago every other day? Scratch that. Not happening.

I was, heaven help me, a hot mess.

My school agreed to work with me and gave me a referral to a therapist in town–the only specialist within a 90-mile radius in a college town where EDs ran rampant. Her soonest availability wasn’t until a month later. And there is a reason why, in treatment, therapy is considered an exercise in futility until the refeeding process is well underway: it is simply not conducive to a malnourished brain. So my therapist, whom I rather liked, bless her, would sit with me for 50 minutes a week while she cajoled me into drinking an Ensure while I stared blankly at the framed diplomas on the wall. It was very much a holding pattern. I was sinking further into anorexia, and nobody really knew what to do.

Thankfully, this therapist was able to get me into a treatment program as soon as I finished out the semester. When I was finally admitted, my doctor shared that she was amazed that my heart hadn’t just simply given out in my sleep. And that’s when I realized things were, perhaps, worse than I thought.

When I zoom out and observe my situation from a bird’s-eye view, it breaks my heart a little bit. I was so sick, and no matter how much support I had or theoretically had access to, I felt totally isolated and completely alone. And the sad part is, I am not special, and my experience is not unique. While in some ways that is comforting, it’s also really disheartening. There are millions of people who have faced the horrors of an ED, and too few of them have access to the care and resources they so desperately need and deserve. (Treatment is exorbitantly expensive and rarely covered in full by insurers, if at all.)

Even with treatment, one of the most painful aspects of this disease is its all-consuming loneliness. Eating disorders are sorely misunderstood, under-recognized, underfunded, and trivialized, if not mocked. Their symptoms and behaviors are normalized (hello Ozempic!), and frequently glamorized (no thanks to Skinnytok and its fearless blonde and repeatedly-banned leader), leaving a sufferer feeling confused and invalidated. They’re shrouded in shame and embarrassment, creating an impenetrable barrier between a person and the world around them. And at the end of the day, they’re extremely deadly, claiming the lives of up to 1 in 5 who suffer. And these aren’t just nameless, faceless people, they’re beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, human beings: I’ve lost almost 10 friends and peers to this disease under the age of 30 over the past decade. They should still be here.

I cannot tell you how many times, while fighting for my life in the midst of treatment, well-meaning people would quip that I just “needed to eat a hot dog,” or something of that nature, as though I, an emotionally intelligent and well-educated creature, had not once considered that I might “just eat.” (Not for nothing, can we come up with something a bit more appetizing than a ball park frank? Good lord, people. Have we lost all sense of decorum?)

And while we’re on the topic of egregious things said and done to people with EDs, there was also the time in a New York City emergency department where I was put on bedrest for low heart rate, a very dangerous side-effect of starvation. Some sorrowful man came in who had taken a bit too much Viagra and was put in the bed next to me. The doctors–all male–disconnected me from the heart monitors, because apparently there weren’t enough (?), gave them to Viagraman, and told me I should go home and exercise to speed up my heart. Once again: very questionable, not-medically-sound advice, but I salute them for this excellent fodder.

Another misnomer surrounding EDs is that they can be utilized as a vehicle for “achieving” a more desirable body, to be disposed of once said body is reached. Unfortunately, it’s a disease and not, much to my sartorially-obsessed dismay, a costume, and it cannot simply be changed or abandoned at will, or when it becomes too inconvenient. The utter truth is that only 6 percent of those with an ED will become medically underweight, and even then, it’s unlikely that one’s self image will be realistically perceived. You might lose weight. You might get thin. But you will never get to “enjoy” it, and if you ever do want to enjoy anything ever again, this body will not be yours to keep. And you will never, ever be the same.

As much as it’s made me who I am today, and that is a person for whom I am grateful (most of the time), I wouldn’t wish my experience on anyone. And I prefer not to dwell on all the time and life I’ve lost to this disease, but I do think it’s important to shed light on these realities in a culture that ignores them. There were the months spent in treatment, repeated hospitalizations, missed school days and medical leaves, the medical and emotional trauma, the needles and tubes and humiliation of life in a medical setting, strained friendships and relationships; the heartbreak and loss; guilt and despair. The driver who told me I looked “too good” to have an ED while taking me to the hospital (Sir, pipe down), the time I angrily threw an entire veggie burger out the window of a speeding car (you can laugh at that one), the time I was charted by a nurse for exotic dancing on an IV pole (you can laugh at that one, too), or the time I sauntered into treatment with a venti cold brew and a giant Chanel bag (and had both confiscated, I had to check my swag at the door, apparently). All that said, it’s worth noting that even at my worst, I likely appeared to the untrained eye as someone who Had It All Together. I think a lot of us, if not most of us, often do.

At this point, I choose to, at the risk of sounding overly earnest, practice gratitude for everything the recovery process has given me (wisdom, levity, humility, resilience)–and everything I would’ve missed had I not chosen to fight back. There have been so many beautiful, meaningful (and frankly, humbling), moments and people I’ve collected along the way, that and whom I would’ve otherwise not encountered. And that’s really something. I also choose to cope with humor, because if I can’t laugh at myself and everything I’ve been through, including Viagragate and the veggie-burger massacre of 2010, I would quite simply not survive.

Because that’s another thing–it doesn’t just go away. I believe in recovery, that it’s possible and that it’s necessary. But unfortunately it’s not something that simply happens to you, passively: it must be constantly pursued, a pill you must keep swallowing. And by constant I mean every day, several times a day. I would be lying if I said it’s a choice I always feel compelled to make. And I would be remiss not to acknowledge just how challenging it can be, still. It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s messy, but I’m starting to embrace that, because a mess can be beautiful, too.

Something I do feel enthusiastic about, however, is being alive and continuing to build a life worth living (even and especially when the fleeting prospect of filling my pockets with stones and walking into the sea sounds enticing). My current therapist, who has seen me through intensive treatment and known me for several years, always encourages me to focus on what I can build and create, rather than channeling all of my energy on extinguishing the ED. She also understands the complexities of my livelihood, as the nature of my work both motivates me and has the capacity to be a huge trigger. But the more I have, the more my life is imbued with meaning, the more I stand to lose, and the less attractive the ED feels–a simple, yet complex, equation. And right now, that’s what’s helping me the most. Perhaps taking that angle could help you, too.

I wish I had more to offer beyond just words, though heartfelt. I wish I could say it’s not something with which I still struggle, often profoundly. And I wish there weren’t so many of you who can see bits of their own story reflected from my own. I recognize that all of this is much harder than it looks. I think it’s important, though, as someone whose life is heavily curated online with beautiful things and experiences to even just say, hey, this shit is hard, even for someone (me) who might appear to have it all. I am happy and enormously grateful and still struggle, and that is okay. We’re all just trying to figure it out. And by piecing together the tattered bits of my experience—unfinished and imperfect as it may be—in hopes that it might help someone feel more whole is all I have to give, and as I’ve learned over many years, sometimes that just has to be enough.

Love,

CG

If you enjoyed this, you may also love: Thoughts on “Skinnytok” and navigating eating disorder recovery in a thin-obsessed world and 7 little lessons learned a decade on from a life-altering hospitalization

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If you or someone you know struggles with an eating disorder, please visit the Alliance for Eating Disorders, The Chain, and Crisis Text Line for resources.

If you’re worried about a friend of a loved one and don’t know what to do, see here.