When people think of eating disorders, there’s often a tragic but romanticised image that comes to mind, fragile beauty, quiet suffering, a cry for help wrapped in soft sadness. But bulimia rarely fits that mould. It’s chaotic. It’s violent. It’s ugly in ways that don’t look good in black and white photography or scripted Netflix specials. This is the side people don’t talk about, and it deserves to be heard.

The Frenzy No One Sees

Bulimia isn’t delicate. It’s desperate. It’s bingeing alone in a dark kitchen at 2am, eating until you physically can’t take any more - foods you don’t even like, things you wouldn't normally touch. It's not a carefully curated snack, it’s cold pasta, half a loaf of bread, spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, stale crisps found at the back of the cupboard and eating food straight from the freezer still frozen. It’s not hunger, it’s compulsion. You feel like a passenger in your own body.

Then comes the purge.

It’s violent and raw, shoving fingers down your throat, gagging, heaving, tears streaming down your face. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t, and you’re left bloated and disgusted with yourself, pacing the room, punching your own thighs, muttering things you wouldn’t say to your worst enemy.

You brush your teeth three times but still taste acid. Your throat burns. Your eyes are bloodshot. Your body shakes. That’s the truth of it. It’s not pretty. It’s not just ‘bad body image’. It’s self-destruction on repeat.

The Aftermath

No one tells you how much damage it does, not just to your body, but to your life.

Your teeth chip. Your skin breaks out. You’re constipated, then diarrhoea kicks in. Your stomach aches for hours. Your period disappears. Your hair thins. And still, you can’t stop.

You lie to your friends about dinner. You avoid holidays because you can’t control the food. You plan your day around when you can purge. You’re exhausted but wired, constantly thinking about food, yet disgusted by it. It consumes everything. Relationships break down, jobs suffer, and still, on the outside, you might look fine.

That’s what makes bulimia so insidious. It hides behind smiles, behind socially acceptable eating habits, behind “Oh, I just had a big lunch.”

The Shame That Follows

What’s perhaps most unspoken about bulimia is the shame.

Unlike anorexia, which society sometimes glorifies as a sign of ‘discipline’, bulimia is seen as dirty. Greedy. Weak. It’s compulsive and chaotic, and those suffering are often seen as lacking control -when, in truth, they are in a constant war with themselves just to feel normal.

It’s isolating. And because of the stigma, so many suffer in silence, terrified of judgement, of being labelled, of being misunderstood.

Getting Real Help

Recovery isn’t linear. It doesn’t always look like a dramatic turning point. Sometimes it’s just deciding not to binge today. It’s therapy, support groups, understanding what lies beneath the behaviour. It’s learning not just to eat normally, but to feel safely. To face emotions without numbing them with food or pain.

And yes, it’s messy. There are relapses. There’s guilt. But there’s also hope.

If you or someone you know is struggling, know this: you are not disgusting. You are not broken. You are ill, and illnesses can be treated. You deserve help, and you deserve to heal.

Dear 14-Year-Old Me,

I know you’re scared right now.

You’re standing at the edge of something you can’t quite name yet. You don’t know that the thing gnawing at your insides has a name....bulimia. You just know you’re hurting. You feel out of place in your own body, like you’re too much and not enough all at once. You feel like you’re doing life wrong, and that maybe you’re wrong for even existing.

You’ve started purging, thinking it might fix something. Thinking it might help you gain some control, or shrink yourself into someone more acceptable. But it won’t. I’m not angry with you for trying. I understand. You’re doing the best you can with what you’ve got. But I want you to know, bulimia won’t make the pain go away. It will only make the pain quieter for a while, and then it’ll scream louder.

You feel like you’re disappearing and no one is noticing. Like you’re falling through cracks that everyone else seems to step over. You wonder if anyone would really care if you stopped trying. If you stopped eating. If you stopped being.

And I need you to know this: You deserve to be here. Even if you don’t believe it yet. Even if your mind tells you otherwise. Even if your body feels foreign and your feelings feel like too much.

You’re not bad or broken or attention-seeking. You’re not “just a teenage girl going through a phase.” You’re a young person who is overwhelmed, misunderstood, and carrying pain that should never have been yours to carry alone.

There are reasons why this is all feeling so hard. You don’t know yet that you’re autistic, that your brain is wired in a beautiful, different way. That your sensory world is more intense, your emotions more vivid, your empathy more consuming. That you’re not weak, you’re overwhelmed in a world that doesn’t understand how to meet you.

One day, you’ll learn that your struggles aren’t proof that you’re defective, they’re clues. Clues that the world has asked too much of you without giving you the tools to cope. Clues that you’ve been trying to survive in an environment that hasn’t made space for your needs.

But you’ll get there. Slowly. Painfully. And beautifully.

One day, you’ll sit with other young people who feel lost too, and you’ll tell your story. You’ll speak the words you once couldn’t say out loud. You’ll write, you’ll cry, you’ll heal and you’ll help others begin to believe in their own worth, too.

There’s a future where you are no longer afraid of your own mind. Where food becomes less of a battleground. Where you’re no longer constantly apologising for existing. That future exists. And you make it there.

You don’t need to be fixed, only understood. You are not a burden. You are not too much. You are not beyond help. You are not alone.

Hold on, little one. Even if all you can do today is survive, that’s enough.

With all the love you never thought you deserved,

Me (who now knows you were worthy all along)

There’s the version of bulimia that gets talked about in hushed tones, skimming over the surface with clinical terms and vague warnings. And then there’s the real version. The unhinged, grotesque, isolating reality that very few people ever see or speak about. It’s not just about bingeing and purging. It's about living in a warped world with its own rules, rituals, and logic. For a long time, that world was mine.

I used to bulk-buy sandwich bags. The kind you’d usually associate with packed lunches or maybe organising odds and ends around the house. For me, they were essential tools of survival, or so I convinced myself. Every time I picked up a multipack, I wasn’t thinking about practicality. I was thinking ahead, planning the next binge, and, crucially, the purge.

There were times when I couldn’t make it to the bathroom, or when I was too paranoid someone might hear me. So I adapted. I created a new routine. The most disturbing part? It became normal.

At my lowest, I had a carrier bag, heavy, misshapen, and knotted tightly hanging from the window frame of my bedroom. Inside were sandwich bags filled with vomit. Sometimes it was just one; other times there were several. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them in the bin in case someone saw. So I let them hang there, suspended just outside the window, as if distancing them by a few inches somehow made it less real. Less vile.

But it was real. Disgustingly real. And it wasn't just a physical act, it was symbolic of how detached I’d become from myself. Hanging there, day after day, was a silent reminder of the secret I carried, one I went to extraordinary lengths to hide.

People talk about eating disorders in terms of control. For me, bulimia wasn’t about control. It was chaos. It was frenzied and manic and driven by shame. It made me resourceful in the most twisted ways. And while the outside world saw someone who maybe looked fine, inside I was living on the edge of madness.

I wish I could say that recovery was linear or simple. It wasn’t. There were relapses. There were years when I still thought I didn’t “look sick enough” to deserve help. But I’ve slowly begun to untangle myself from the rituals, the secrecy, and the self-loathing.

Sharing this now still fills me with a strange mixture of shame and defiance. Shame, because those memories are so raw. Defiance, because I survived. I clawed my way out of that warped world, and I'm still here to tell the truth of it.

If you're living in that unhinged space right now, know this: you're not beyond help. And you're not insane. You're someone trying to cope in the only way you know how. But there is another way. It starts with honesty, no matter how dark it feels.

This was mine.

When I was finally in recovery from bulimia, I thought I’d turned a corner I would never need to revisit. The years of secrecy, guilt, and the physical toll on my body had left me deeply exhausted but also determined to rebuild my relationship with food and with myself.

I never expected another health diagnosis to appear on the horizon. But shortly after feeling like I’d reclaimed my appetite, my energy, and even joy in eating, I was diagnosed with coeliac disease.

It felt, at first, like a cruel twist of fate.

Recognising Something Wasn’t Right

My recovery from bulimia wasn’t linear, but I’d made consistent progress. I’d reached a place where eating was no longer filled with fear or punishment. I was learning to nourish my body instead of fighting it.

So when the bloating, fatigue, and stomach pains began creeping back in, I was terrified. My first thought was relapse, was this bulimia returning in disguise? But I hadn’t restricted or purged. I was doing everything “right”. Still, my body seemed to be protesting.

After months of symptoms and self-doubt a blood test followed by a biopsy confirmed it: I had coeliac disease. My body was reacting to gluten, an autoimmune response, completely unrelated to the eating disorder, yet overlapping in all the most complicated ways.

Navigating a New Diagnosis with a Disordered Eating History

Coeliac disease requires strict, lifelong avoidance of gluten, found in bread, pasta, cakes, many processed foods, and even hidden in sauces or cross-contamination. It’s not a diet; it’s a necessity. Without this vigilance, coeliacs face long-term complications, from nutrient deficiencies to increased cancer risks.

For someone in recovery from bulimia, the idea of food rules can feel dangerous.

After years of learning not to label foods as “good” or “bad”, suddenly I had to draw a hard line, not for emotional or aesthetic reasons, but for my physical health. Still, the feeling was unnervingly familiar. Reading labels obsessively, turning down food at social events, and asking detailed questions about restaurant meals, all things I’d done in the throes of disordered eating.

But the motivation was different now, and I had to remind myself of that constantly. This wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about shrinking my body or punishing myself. This was about protecting it.

Grieving What I Thought I’d Reclaimed

I cried, more than once over a spontaneous lunch out that turned stressful. Over the fear that friends might once again see me as “fussy” or “obsessed with food”. It felt like a step backwards, but I slowly began to realise it wasn’t.

Recovery had given me the tools to listen to my body with compassion and coeliac disease was just another reason to use them.

I already knew how to sit with discomfort. I knew how to challenge obsessive thoughts and lean into self-kindness. I knew how to ask for support. Those lessons, hard-earned in eating disorder recovery, turned out to be vital in managing this new chapter.

Reframing What Health Means

There’s a strange grief that comes with chronic illness even more so when you thought you were finally healthy. But over time, I’ve reframed my understanding of health.

Health isn’t just the absence of disease or disorder. It’s the ability to care for yourself, to adapt, and to treat your body with respect, even when it’s not cooperating.

Living gluten-free isn’t a punishment. It’s a form of care. It allows me to live without pain, without exhaustion. It keeps me well. It allows me to enjoy food again, even if in a more limited way

Being diagnosed with coeliac disease after recovering from bulimia isn’t easy. It’s a complicated overlap that requires extra vigilance, honesty, and self-compassion. But it’s possible, not just to manage, but to thrive.

If you’re going through something similar, know this: your recovery is not undone by a medical diagnosis. Your strength is not erased by needing new boundaries. And you are absolutely capable of holding both your past and your future in the same pair of hands.

There’s a peculiar kind of heaviness that settles in when every day starts to feel exactly like the last. Not dramatic or overwhelming, just grey. A quiet, persistent dullness that tugs at your edges, making everything seem slightly out of reach. I suppose that’s where I’ve found myself lately.

It’s not that anything’s wrong, per se. The job ticks along. The house is in decent shape. I’m eating properly (most days), and I still laugh at the odd meme or poorly-timed joke. But something’s missing. Or maybe everything just feels too much like nothing.

I wake up, check my phone before I’ve even fully opened my eyes, scroll through nonsense I won’t remember, drag myself to the shower, sit at the same desk, answer the same emails, eat the same sandwich, go to bed, and repeat. There’s a wordless loop playing in the background of my life, and I can’t find the remote to shut it off.

I’ve tried the usual tricks. A new hobby, some gentle exercise, a change of scenery, even rearranging the furniture like I’m trying to feng shui my way out of this mood. But the fog lingers. It’s hard to shake the feeling that I’m living on autopilot, barely participating in my own life.

I know I’m not alone. People don’t talk about it often, but I think a lot of us carry this low-key fatigue. This sense of waiting, for what, exactly, I’m not sure. Something to change. Something to snap us out of it.

Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe not. But for now, I’m sitting with it. Trying not to pretend I’m fine when I’m not. Letting myself feel it, even if I’d rather not. Because maybe feeling stuck is just the first step to getting unstuck.

Here’s hoping.

As the days get longer and the sun begins to linger, there's often a quiet pressure that comes with summer. For many, it's a time of holidays, picnics, beach days, and lighter clothing. But for some of us, summer also brings a wave of anxiety, not because of the weather, but because of the visible reminders of pain we’ve lived through. Scars.

Self-harm scars, whether faded or fresh, can feel like a secret you carry around all winter, safely tucked away under jumpers and long sleeves. But summer doesn’t allow for that same kind of hiding. And even if no one else points them out, the awareness of them can become loud, sometimes deafening.

Choosing What to Show (Or Not Show)

There’s no one right way to approach this. Some people feel ready to wear short sleeves or swimwear and let their scars be seen. Others prefer to stay covered, finding comfort in privacy. Both are completely valid.

It’s not about "being brave" or "moving on", it’s about doing what feels right and safe for you. There is strength in honouring your needs, whether that means choosing a light cardigan on a hot day or deciding you don’t want to hide anymore.

The Fear of Being Seen

What often hurts more than the scars themselves is the fear of judgement, those second glances, whispered questions, or well-meaning but uncomfortable comments. It can make the idea of going outside feel like a risk.

If someone does ask, you don’t owe them an explanation. You don’t have to tell your story to strangers or even friends if you’re not ready. A simple, “I’d rather not talk about it” is enough.

Body, History, and Healing

Your scars are not something to be ashamed of. They’re not evidence of weakness, they’re proof that you endured. They might mark a time in your life when you were surviving the only way you knew how.

Summer can feel like a time where we’re expected to feel happy and carefree. But healing doesn’t follow the seasons. If this summer finds you still working through pain, that’s okay.

Tips for Navigating Summer With Scars

• Have an outfit plan: Know what you feel comfortable in, and have a few go-to outfits that balance comfort and confidence.

• Sun protection: Scar tissue can be sensitive to sunlight, so using high SPF on exposed skin can help protect them physically, even if you choose to keep them visible.

• Prepare for questions: If you think you might be asked, having a few phrases prepared can help reduce anxiety.

• Find safe people: Spend time with those who make you feel accepted, not judged.

• Show yourself compassion: You deserve kindness — from others, and especially from yourself.

You’re Still Allowed to Enjoy Summer

You are not your scars. You are not your past. You are a whole person; complex, growing, and worthy of sunlight.

Go to the beach. Laugh with friends. Drink iced coffee in the park. Wear whatever makes you feel most like you.

Scars or not, your presence is a gift. Your comfort matters. And your story however messy, ongoing, or quiet — is valid.

Have you ever found yourself asking, “Why do I feel nothing?”—like your emotions are on mute, distant, or somehow out of reach? Emotional numbness can be deeply unsettling. It’s not the same as feeling calm or at peace. It’s more like watching life happen from behind a glass wall—you’re there, but not quite in it.

Emotions play a fundamental role in helping us navigate the world. They guide our decisions, deepen our relationships, and help us understand ourselves and others. When those emotions are dulled or absent, it can leave us feeling disconnected—not only from other people, but from our own lives.

What Is Emotional Numbness?

Emotional numbness isn’t a diagnosis in itself, but a symptom. It can be the brain’s way of protecting us from overwhelming feelings, like fear, grief, anger, or trauma. Sometimes, it develops as a survival mechanism—a way to keep functioning when life feels too painful or chaotic. Other times, it may creep in slowly, the result of long-term stress, burnout, or mental health conditions like depression, anxiety, PTSD, or even eating disorders.

You might notice:

• Feeling detached from people or situations
• Struggling to connect with joy, sadness, or empathy
• Going through the motions without really “feeling” anything
• Difficulty expressing yourself emotionally
• An overwhelming sense of emptiness or apathy

If this sounds familiar, you’re not alone—and you’re not broken. Your brain may simply be trying to cope in the only way it currently knows how.

Why Does It Happen?

There are many possible reasons behind emotional numbness, including:

• Trauma or prolonged stress: Ongoing emotional stress can lead to emotional shutdown as a protective response.
• Depression: Often characterised not just by sadness, but by a lack of feeling altogether.
• Anxiety: Chronic anxiety can lead to a state of emotional overload, making it difficult to process or even register emotions.
• Burnout: Physical and emotional exhaustion can drain your emotional reserves.
• Medication or substance use: Certain medications, particularly antidepressants, can sometimes cause a flattening of affect.

Coping Mechanisms: How to Start Feeling Again

The good news is, emotional numbness isn’t permanent. There are steps you can take to begin reconnecting with yourself and your emotions:

1. Acknowledge What You’re Feeling—Or Not Feeling

It might sound odd, but simply naming that you feel numb is a powerful first step. It helps you stay connected to your experience without judgement.

2. Make Space for Emotions

When you’ve learned to suppress feelings, it can take time to allow them back in. Journalling, creative outlets, or simply sitting with yourself in silence can help. Try not to force emotions—just be open to noticing them.

3. Ground Yourself in the Present

Mindfulness exercises, like deep breathing, body scans, or sensory activities, can gently bring you back to the here and now. Reconnecting with your body can also reconnect you with how you feel.

4. Reconnect with Safe People

Human connection is a powerful antidote to numbness. Even if it feels hard, spending time with people who make you feel seen and safe can gradually thaw emotional distance.

5. Seek Professional Support

A therapist can help you explore what might be causing your emotional numbness and guide you through the process of emotional reconnection. You don’t have to do this alone.

6. Be Patient with Yourself

Healing takes time. Feeling again—especially after a period of shutdown—can be uncomfortable or overwhelming at first. Go gently. There’s no right pace.

Emotional numbness isn’t a sign that you’re weak or failing—it’s a sign that your nervous system is doing its best to protect you. But it doesn’t have to be permanent. With compassion, curiosity, and support, you can come back to yourself.

You deserve to feel connected. You deserve to feel alive. And even if it doesn’t feel possible right now, it’s okay to hold on to the hope that one day—it will.