In my earlier years, I observed how mental health and trauma affected people's appetites. I watched as some stopped eating due to heartbreak and stress. Among my peers, "eating is cheating" was the mantra for weight loss. Growing up in the '90s, diet culture was everywhere, and Kate Moss’s infamous quote, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” defined the era. These messages planted seeds of insecurity that would later grow in unexpected ways.
When I was around 10 years old, someone taunted me for eating too loudly. That comment embedded itself deeply in my subconscious, creating hyper-vigilance around how I ate. I covered my mouth when chewing, avoided eating in front of others, and on dates, I often skipped dinner altogether or ended up in the bathroom, hyperventilating because I couldn’t swallow food due to overwhelming anxiety. I didn’t understand why at the time, but the fear of judgment loomed over every meal.
Despite those insecurities, as a teenager, I didn’t understand much about nutrition. My mum made the most wholesome traditional English meals, but I dismissed them as bland. I was content with chocolate and cans of Coke, wondering why I couldn’t sleep, felt constantly ill, and struggled with breakouts during my teenage years. I had no awareness of how poor nutrition was affecting me.
I remember one day, many years ago, when I first moved to New Zealand. I was struggling immensely with homesickness, which led to severe anxiety and panic. Someone complimented me on how "skinny" and "good" I looked, assuming I was on a diet. I immediately replied, "It’s not a good thing. I’m not well. I’m having panic attacks, and I have absolutely no appetite." Their face fell, and they apologised, admitting they hadn’t known and shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. That conversation stayed with me because it revealed how often people assume weight loss is automatically a good thing.
In my mid-20s, after battling severe anxiety and burnout, social media introduced me to the world of gluten-free, dairy-free, organic eating, supplements, leaky gut, toxin awareness, vegetarianism, and refined sugar-free diets. I started making changes and saw quick improvements—my skin cleared, I had more energy, and I felt less bloated. At first, it felt great, but soon, it spiraled into obsession. I checked every label for "clean" ingredients. I wasn’t counting calories, but I was counting nutrients—protein, antioxidants, essential fatty acids. The more “clean” I ate, the more control I thought I had.
I remember spending hundreds of dollars a month on supplements. I was attending at least 3 hot yoga classes a week, jogging 20-30 minutes every day morning and night and going to a body building class twice a week. My shelves were filled with bottles of vitamins, nutrients, protein powders, cleanses, superfoods, and of course, everything had to be organic! And despite all of this, being in the best shape physically in my life I still had moments where I criticised my body in the way it looked, I could be more toned, I could lose another kg. I stopped eating meals with my partner because I was constantly preparing something different for myself. Cooking together had once been our shared joy, but it disappeared under the weight of orthorexia. Food was no longer nourishment—it was stress.
I took a year-long course in naturopathic nutrition, which only worsened things. The more I knew, the more fear and activation I felt in my nervous system. I was in a fight-or-flight response, battling to eat and be healthy, fighting for those around me to do the same, even at the expense of my relationships, the pendulum had swung too far the other way. I started to surround myself with people who shared my views, which only reinforced this way of thinking. I became obsessed with playing right or wrong and didn’t even realise it.
Then, one day, someone referred to me as a "purist." I didn’t know if it was a compliment or an insult, but it didn’t feel good in my body. I sensed I had taken things too far, and it was all coming from a place of fear. In a world where ice baths, saunas, fasting, Ayurvedic cleanses, and more are increasingly popular, I’m witnessing the rise of orthorexia. It’s not that these things are inherently wrong, but it’s important to recognise whether they are practised in balance or stem from fear, control, or even a trauma response.
What people don’t realise is that you never truly know someone’s story. When someone has gained weight or looks a certain way, pause. Stop, and have compassion. You don’t know what they’re going through. The same goes for weight loss—it could be a sign of grief, anxiety, trauma, or illness. To this day, I can’t help but feel defensive when people comment on weight or appearance, whether it’s about me or others. It’s no one’s business whether someone has gained or lost weight. What truly matters is how they feel and whether they’re okay.
I’ve worked hard to rebuild my relationship with food. I still aim for balance, but I don’t obsess over nutrients. I eat the cake and the kale, I believe in the power of nutrients but also am very aware of how stress/pressure to be healthy can prevent nutients and suppliments from being absored properly. I take joy in the meals my partner and I cook together. I now savour connection over control. And I’ve learned to speak up when I hear comments about weight or appearance that could be harmful.
Food and orthorexia are no longer battlegrounds for me. Resourcing my nervous system is now my priority, and I do this from a place of compassion, not pressure. Therapy has been integral to this healing, alongside dance, creative outlets, and nourishing relationships.
This shift in perspective has also deepened my appreciation for the female body. Instead of comparing, I now look at women of all shapes and sizes and see nothing but pure... fucking... beauty!
My journey hasn’t been linear, but it’s led me to a place of greater compassion—for myself and for others. If this resonates with you, know that you’re not alone. Healing is always possible.
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