Today marks 10 months in recovery for me, and it feels surreal to even be typing that. It has also been a full year since I started therapy, and it’s amazing how much can change with time. I never thought I’d make it this far—not in recovery, not in healing my relationship with myself, food, and the world. Yet here I am, having planted the seeds that I needed to heal and showed them enough care and love for them to grow. As my flowers bloom, I feel unrecognizable from the Hamda I was back then. But maybe for the first time in my life, I feel certain about who I am and where I’m going. Living day to-day can make us forget how far we’ve come. Reflecting on the past year reminds me of the strength and intentionality it took to get here. I remember sitting on my therapist’s couch a year ago, completely terrified of the decision I’d made. I was so empty that the idea of having goals or dreams—or even just living a normal life—felt like a fairy tale. But this past Sunday, I sat in that same ...
Last year, the only thing I wanted was to reach a certain weight goal on my birthday. I remember waking up that morning; the sun filtering through my curtains, as I nervously stepped onto the scale. The numbers flickered, and my heart raced with anticipation. With bated breath, I watched as the number blinked once, then twice at me. I did it. I reached my “goal weight.” Months of effort culminated in two digits. It feels like I have waited my whole life for this. Yet, instead of happiness or accomplishment, I felt an overwhelming emptiness. It was not enough. I decided then that I was not worth celebrating. I came back home from work that day to a birthday cake and flowers proudly presented on the coffee table. The sight of it all irritated me. Everything felt like a mockery, a reminder of all the things I couldn’t indulge in or celebrate. I blew out the candles and wished I was smaller, smiling in photos only to spend hours later criticizing my appearance. Thus began another year of...