When Things Got Scary 

You can read about my first experiences with poor body image here, but it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that a switch flipped. A switch that had been flickering for some time with my body image awareness. But it was my commitment to running that flipped the switch and sent me quickly and uncontrollably into the dark world of anorexia. 

In high school I had been maybe the 5th or 6th best runner on the team (enough to make varsity, but still pretty mediocre). By the end of my freshman year of college, I was the university’s number one cross country runner in a division I program, holding the school’s 6k record and just seconds away from breaking the 5k record that stood for ten years. Mind you, my school was very small and the cross country team was not one that would impress anyone at a large, competitive school. But I was having so much fun being a big fish in a small pond. I loved my team, and my place on the team. I loved celebrating after each race with nights out at Friendly’s and ending the season with pizza and way too many Mikes Hard Lemonades (gross, I know). 

When it came time to kick off training for my next season I began looking back on that victorious freshmen year of racing while I stared into that floor length mirror at my new bigger body (those “freshmen fifteen” are no joke…). I panicked. I needed to get in shape, and to make sure that I was better, faster, stronger than the year before. 

It was like a demon took over in my mind and told me that running was not just for fun – it was my job and my obligation to my team, coach, family, and myself to be faster and fitter. And I needed to look the part. I needed to keep my identity as the fastest woman on campus. I needed to remind myself of those self-deprecating conversations I’d hear on my high school cross country team. The demon told me that celebratory trips to Friendly’s would have to be a thing of the past and that being dedicated meant living and breathing running and diet. And I listened. 

I vowed to eat only “healthy” foods, which to me meant restricting as much as possible. A carefully measured half cup of zero sugar cereal in the morning, half a peanut butter sandwich at lunch made with exactly one tablespoon of all natural peanut butter, an apple as a snack, and salad dressed in 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar at dinner. I trained diligently and hard, and I’d weigh myself before and after each run. 

My family, at first, admired my dedication. But they quickly recognized that I was headed down a dangerous path. I, however, was in denial. Listening to the demon seemed to work really, really well and I intended to continue doing just that. I was lighter than I had been in years and was knocking more and more time off the clock. I felt unstoppable and was on my way to claiming more records. All the while reclaiming that old identity as “the skinny girl.” It felt great and I thought I was doing everything right. Until everything went horribly wrong. 

All of a sudden I had totally lost control. Running and eating (or, lack of eating) suddenly consumed all aspects of my life. That was what I had wanted, wasn’t it? But it didn’t feel right. My social life was gone, I was an emotional wreck, I had a short fuse, and I felt like total crap for lack of better words. 

I stopped doing things with my friends because what if I was out when it was lunch time? The anxiety of eating anything other than my half peanut butter sandwich was too much to handle. Nights out drinking alcohol? No way, I wasn’t going to drink my calories and I needed to be rested enough to run in the morning. I’d go to bed immediately after dinner so there was no time to be hungry, and I’d ignore the hunger pangs I’d feel through the night until it was time for that cereal (and then a 10 mile run to burn it off). 

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I avoided meals with my family and was tense whenever I was around food. I was short-tempered and I was constantly hungry. And those runs that had been feeling so good became torture. It was all I could do to push through easy mileage. The thing I loved most became a chore. 

After several unjustified emotional breakdowns, I recognized that what I thought was helping me to get faster and stronger was wreaking havoc on me both physically and mentally. I needed help and was ready to ask for it. I had an exceptional support team and worked hard to ditch that demon. I was planning to spend my spring semester of sophomore year studying in Perugia, Italy, and was motivated to prove to my family that I was healthy enough and in a solid enough mental state to go. 

I took off for my European adventure and had the time of my life while also having my biggest setback yet. I was no longer under the watch of my parents, coaches, or friends and I was quite literally fading away. I came home from that semester weighing 88 lbs. I’m 5’9.” 

I wasn’t allowed to run for months after returning home. I wasn’t allowed to cook for myself or to be in the kitchen while my mom was cooking for me. I wasn’t weighing myself. And my anxiety around food was through the roof. 

With all of that and a LOT of emotional support from my mom, I put on weight and was physically healthy enough to return to school, have a killer cross country season (crush that 5k record), enjoy my last years of college, and regain some of that social life I had lost. 

But even appearing healthy on the outside, I was still rigid, anxious, exercising incessantly, carefully examining each bite I put in my mouth, and bought myself a brand new shiny scale to be certain I didn’t go far above the minimum weight that allowed me to stay in school and run. 

It took years… too many of them. And while I was able to quiet the voice of that demon and definitely had periods of time where I had more of a handle on it, it always had a hold on me. It wasn’t until last year that I felt powerful enough to put it to rest. Powerful enough to ditch the scale (for real this time), to let go of the anxiety I’d feel if I didn’t work out, to not analyze menus while typing “calories in…..” into my phone before choosing what to order at a restaurant, and to stop pouring so much energy into protecting my identity as “the skinny runner girl.” And damn, it feels good.

Now I’m determined to go back to Italy one day and enjoy all that Italian food I missed out on.