From Body Shame to Freedom: Rewriting the Story I Was Given

I started feeling embarrassed about my body at eight years old. Bigger, taller, older-looking than the other girls on my cheer team, I stood out, and not in a way that felt good.

That’s when shame crept in.

But it didn’t just creep; it rooted itself deep. From then on, no matter the situation, whether I was in an argument, making a mistake, or simply existing, the first insult anyone threw at me was about my weight. It was the go-to jab, the sharpest insult, the easiest way to cut me down.

My body wasn’t just something I carried; it became who I was allowed to be. The fat girl. Not a passing description, an identity, stamped on me before I even knew myself.

And then came the gift that sealed it: a weight-loss book for Christmas. I was a child, and yet, that book confirmed what I already feared: my body was a problem that needed fixing.

The truth? I didn’t eat more than anyone else. I was just… bigger, and the world never let me forget it.

At school, I was the “big girl” in the friend group. The one who watched from the sidelines while the others flirted, dated, and basked in the kind of attention I ached for. I felt invisible in all the wrong ways, and hyper-visible in the worst ones.

At the doctor’s office, it didn’t matter what I came in for: fatigue, stomach pain, anything at all, the answer was always the same: lose weight. No real investigation, no real care, just blame. And so I started believing every flaw, every rejection, every ache was because of my body.

By fourteen, I was 5’10”, desperate to disappear. Nothing in the kids’ section fit me, so I wore my grandma’s hand-me-downs. That wasn’t a quirky fashion phase; that was shame.

Baggy hoodies in 100-degree weather weren’t a style; they were armor. I wore them to shrink, to hide, to beg the world to stop looking at me, stop labeling me, stop telling me I was “too much.”

And all of it came with another heavy weight: social anxiety. Going anywhere felt overwhelming. Walking into a room, stepping into a store, sitting in class, I had it in my head that everyone was staring, judging, dissecting my body. The shame lived in my skin so fully that I couldn’t separate my reflection from my worth.

Still, during those years, it wasn’t an eating disorder yet. It was shame, stigma, silence, and anxiety pressing in from every side. I carried them with me, heavy and unspoken.

It wasn’t until adulthood, when I finally had access to food without restriction, that everything spiraled. Scarcity turned into overload. I binge ate for comfort, for survival, for some tiny scrap of control, and I did it secretly, shamefully. I’d binge, then starve, then hate myself for it.

But I still didn’t recognize it as disordered, because I wasn’t thin, I wasn’t hospitalized. I was just… suffering quietly in a body the world said deserved it.

And then, something shifted.

On January 26, 2024, I opened Brain Over Binge by Kathryn Hansen. And for the first time, I saw my patterns without judgment. I understood them, I forgave myself.

And I stopped.

It’s been over a year.

I’m still learning how to eat without guilt, how to stop labeling food as good or bad, how to sit at a table with others and not analyze every bite, but something is different now.

When I pass a mirror, I pause, I soften, I whisper:

“Thank you for carrying me through my hardest moments. I love you. I’m here now.”

I no longer punish my body for protecting me.

Rewiring the Lie

Binge urges aren’t character flaws. They’re survival habits wired through trauma, stress, and repetition. You don’t need to fix yourself; you just need to witness yourself, without shame.

So the next time you feel triggered, ask:

“Is this really me, or just an old survival habit trying to stay alive?”

That tiny pause? That moment of awareness?

That’s not a weakness.

That’s your power.

You were never broken, your body was never the enemy, you were just trying to be safe.

And now, you get to be free.