Empty Doesn’t Hurt… A Body Still In Progress

Trigger Warning: talk of ED (eating disorder)

I’ve been carrying something quietly for a while now, and I think it’s time I let it breathe in the open. This isn’t a post full of polished advice or easy resolutions… it’s a tangle I’m still trying to work through, thread by thread. But it feels important to name it, to speak it, before the silence turns into something more damaging.

Lately, I’ve been leaning into intermittent fasting. Not in an extreme or rigid way… at least, not yet, hopefully never… but I’ve noticed something unsettling beneath the surface. I don’t JUST fast because it helps me lose weight, helps me feel focused or because I’ve read that it can be good for the body. I fast, also, because, when I do, my body stops hurting. There’s a kind of relief in the emptiness.

No cramping. No twisting intestines. No mystery reactions. Just… quiet.

It’s been so hard to find foods that don’t hurt me. I’ve tried to be patient, tried to be careful, tried to experiment with new ingredients or meal plans over the last 8 years, but nothing really seems to work. Eating feels like playing roulette with my own body. So instead of just giving up and starving myself completely, I’ve tried to stay intentional. I’ve been drinking warm chicken broth with vegetables, to give my body something easy to process. I’ve added wheat toast or sourdough toast when I can.

Sometimes homemade vegan chili. And throughout the day, I snack on a little mix I made myself (sometimes just individually), coconut shavings, chocolate chips, peanuts, pumpkin seeds, raisins. Often I’ll eat cut up carrots, I’ll make an egg with my vegan chili in the mornings… It’s not perfect, but it’s something. And it helps.

Still, I feel this underlying tension. I don’t want to slip into anorexia. But I also don’t trust myself around food. I’ve struggled with emotional eating for years. There’s always been this tug-of-war between hunger and shame, between cravings and control. Sometimes, eating feels like drowning. Sometimes, it feels like grasping at air. I’ve never had a healthy relationship with food… or with my own body, if I’m being honest. And lately, I’ve started to realize just how deep that pain runs.

Part of me is terrified I’m doing something dangerous. That I’ll look back one day and realize I was walking into a long-term health issue without realizing it. That I was so desperate for relief, for quiet, that I ignored what my body truly needed. I’ve spent a long time not caring… about my health, about my limits, about the consequences… and I’m finally at a point where I want to care. I want to heal.

But there’s still this whisper inside me, seductive in its simplicity, that says “Maybe just stop eating altogether. Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe you’d feel better if you just stopped trying.”

And it’s hard, because there’s a strange kind of logic to it. When my system is empty, there’s no pain. That’s the honest truth. It’s easy to understand why people with chronic illness (or really any illness involving food and/or painful digestive issues) sometimes fall into disordered eating patterns. When every bite feels like a risk, abstaining feels like safety. Like control. Like peace.

But my relationship with food isn’t just about physical pain. It’s emotional, too. I don’t have the kind of appetite that disappears when I’m unwell. I eat when I’m sad. I eat when I’m lonely.

I eat when I feel like a failure. Food has always been more than nourishment to me no matter how healthy the food IS… it’s been a coping mechanism, a placeholder for affection, a ritual of comfort. And that makes all of this even more complicated.

I guess I’m bringing this up in a blog post (it was originally a text for my mom but I’ll spare her my over-explaining) because I’m about to make a doctor’s appointment… the first one since getting Medicaid back. It feels like a moment of possibility, a chance to really talk about what’s been going on. But I don’t know how to explain all of this. I don’t know how to wrap this mess of feelings, fears, and facts into something a doctor can actually understand… which honestly adds to why I have not even looked for a doctor yet… I keep wondering what words will feel both honest and coherent. I keep wondering how to say, I’m scared of eating, but I’m also scared of not eating. I want to be healthy, but I don’t know how.

I lost over 20 pounds within the last several years. And I guess that added to my focus on health. I’m trying not to focus purely on weight loss, because I know from experience if I do, I’ll lose track of what’s truly important, my overall body health. Losing weight has been nice, but in order to maintain a lower body weight, I need to teach myself the lifestyle choice that will keep me below the weight I was.

At the same time, I’m trying. I really am. I’ve been more active than I’ve been in years. I’ve started counting calories, not obsessively, but mindfully… trying to learn what my body actually needs. I’m drinking more water. I’m going on walks. I’m doing squats, even though I’ve avoided them for years. I’ve started doing chores with purpose, during the day taking any chance to MOVE even a little extra. Practicing karate with my husband (he’s an instructor and has an amazing program- if anyone reads this and wants to have him be your instructor, let me know)… Trying to reinhabit this body I’ve spent so long disassociating from.

There’s a strange grief in it. A grief for the years I spent numb or checked out. A grief for the version of me that never really believed she deserved to feel strong or well or beautiful. And yet, even now, with all the progress I’m making, I still feel this undercurrent of failure.

I look at other people and wonder how they make it look so easy. The discipline. The consistency. The seemingly effortless health. I wonder what it would be like to wake up without this heavy, aching awareness of every bodily function. To eat without second-guessing. To feel full without guilt. To feel hunger without fear.

But I’m learning not to idolize ease. I’m learning that maybe it was never supposed to be easy for me. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is that I show up anyway.

And the truth is, I’ve spent my entire life navigating limitations… some visible, some invisible. I’ve lived with chronic pain, with emotional trauma, with diagnoses that have shaped the way I move through the world. But I’ve never really sat down and asked myself, What exactly are these limits? Are these limits I can break through safely or do I need to find an alternative? Where do they come from? What are they trying to tell me? I’ve always assumed that my limitations were barriers… but maybe they’re invitations. To slow down. To listen. To adapt.

I’ve never taken the time to map out what’s possible for me… what movement looks like, what nourishment means, how healing might look if I stopped comparing myself to everyone else and started writing my own definition of wellness. I’ve never really believed that I could be healthy because of who I am, rather than in spite of it. But I’m starting to believe it now.

And that belief is fragile. It shakes. It stutters. But it’s here.

I think what I’m trying to say is this: I’m finally paying attention. To the patterns. To the pain. To the instincts that have been trying to protect me, even when they’ve done it poorly. I’m finally acknowledging how deep this runs… not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. I’m trying to make peace with food, with movement, with the brokenness of my own biology. I’m trying to find a way forward that doesn’t require me to punish myself first.

There are still days when I look in the mirror and feel like I’m losing. There are still days when I’m tempted to stop eating just to feel in control.

But there are also days when I feed myself on purpose. Days when I lace up my shoes and walk anyway. Days when I do the hard thing not because I want to, but because I’m worth the effort.

I’ve never really said all this before. Not like this. Not in one place. I’ve always been afraid that if I said it out loud, it would sound like weakness. But I don’t think it’s weakness anymore. I think it’s the beginning of something honest.

Something brave.

I don’t have a perfect plan. I don’t know where this journey will take me. But I know I’m no longer willing to live in confusion and silence. I’m ready to advocate for myself. To ask questions. To try. To fail. To try again.

This is me, showing up. This is me, choosing not to hide. This is me, learning to live in a body that’s complicated and tender and still worthy of care. I don’t need to be perfect. I just need to be present.

And I am. Finally, I am.