How Lucky Am I?

On days like this, I can’t help but pause and think about how far I’ve come. Recovery doesn’t announce itself loudly; it whispers in small, ordinary moments. It’s in the walk home from the bus stop feeling the strength in my legs. I remember when standing up was an effort, when my muscles trembled under my weight.
It’s in the taste of ice cream and the warmth of a healthy body.
Back then, pain felt like proof: proof of control, of discipline, of worth. I told myself it was the price of happiness. But I was anything but happy. Nights were long and restless, my stomach growling like an accusation. My heart raced to keep my frozen hands and feet alive, while my mind spun endlessly through guilt and numbers.
Anorexia didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in quietly, disguising itself as a gift, something to cherish and foster. I thought I understood what an eating disorder looked like, but I didn’t recognise it in my own reflection.
Now, standing here in the light of an ordinary day, I can finally see it for what it was, and how far I’ve come. And how lucky I am to have this perspective.

By Sinéad