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 spot pointing out patterns I want to work on and leaving the session excited about discussing my goals for the year ahead. My therapist pointed out how much I’ve grown alone. She said something that really stuck with me: Circumstances and trauma may force us to change, but when we know who we are and what we want, we continue to grow—not because we must, but because we want to.
In the same way, a year ago, I had to confront my deteriorating physical and mental health and make a choice: either let it destroy me or fight for life. Trauma, hurt, and years of accumulated anxiety left me with no real coping skills, and I felt so hopeless and defeated. I had no choice but to confront the parts of myself I feared the most. It was painful and slow, but I decided then that if time passes anyway, I will make it count. And so, making it through those moments is the bravest and strongest thing I’ve ever done.
Before my recovery, I lived in darkness and monotony. Everything was calculated. I meticulously planned everything. Every action, thought, and behavior was an attempt to create what I thought was the “perfect” life with the “perfect” body. But it was all so empty and cold. I thought having the perfect body would make me more loved, or that I’d finally love myself. I thought it would earn me acceptance from my friends, my family, and maybe even myself. But the deeper I sank into it, the more I hated who I was becoming. Nothing was ever enough. I gave and gave until I was a broken shell of a person.
Now, I’m relearning how to care for myself, how to show up for myself even on the hardest days. Even after I was weight restored, I continued to try to become a better person, because real recovery is not just about breaking the fear of weight gain; it is also about facing everything you’ve known and intentionally building new connections, unlearning patterns, and learning to sit in discomfort instead of running away from it. It is also about redefining what happiness is to you. Recovery taught me that healing isn’t linear, and there are days when doubt creeps with silent feet into my heart, but each day fighting against this was progress I was very proud of. I’ve realized that self-love isn’t about appearances. It’s about consistently choosing to nurture and honor myself in ways that truly matter, living life to the fullest, and finding comfort in a kinder and more intentional life.
My biggest fear has always been “change”. I loved my routines and found comfort in them. I often expressed anxiety about even the slightest change, but recovery forced me to confront this fear directly as my body and mind changed. Through weight restoring, I had to accept that the weight I gained was not only healthy but necessary. The body I had when I was starving myself was never a body I was meant to keep forever. My mindset also changed the more stable I became. I no longer define my worth by how I look or what size I wear. Self-love to me now means respecting my needs, embracing my imperfections, and appreciating the strength it took for me to get here. I don’t want to be defined by my body any longer. I want to be defined by things that make me who I am, like my curiosity, my interests, my kindness, or my smile.
Addressing change has also meant coming to terms with the way relationships have shifted. On one hand, my relationship with those closest to me transformed for the better. I am so grateful for all the love, support, and patience my mother and brothers showed me. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve broken down in front of them and how they welcomed me back in their arms every single time. The way my family stood beside me taught me to be resilient and to push through. They believed in me when I did not believe in myself.
I’ve accepted that some of my relationships couldn’t survive the person I was when I was sick or my tumultuous recovery—and that’s okay. I don’t blame myself anymore for the hurt I caused or the deep sorrow I felt. I was unwell and needed help, and it took great strength to pull myself out of the hole I dug over the years. I’ve outgrown a lot of my old relationships, and I no longer feel weighed down by guilt for moving on. I don’t entertain conversations that don’t benefit me or drag me back to places I’ve left behind.
I value the relationships that remain and cherish the time I spend with myself because my head is no longer a place I don’t want to be in. It’s no longer gloomy and misreable. The sun is illuminating the parts of me I’ve forgotten and slowly but surely bringing them to life. Slowly but surely, I’m healing my relationship with myself. The sad, broken person I was at my lowest is not a reflection of who I’m becoming. And yet, I’m grateful for what I’ve endured because it changed me for the better. My smiles now radiate genuine warmth, and I carry so much love for the world around me. I’ve reclaimed my independence, rediscovered what it means to be alive, and built a life that feels soft, kind, and true.
I am learning to trust myself instead of being stuck in a constant cycle of self-doubt. It is a little hard to fathom because my life with anorexia was everything I have ever known. However, right now my days are not dictated by numbers or how I look. My life no longer revolves around food or my body. I finally have the space to do the things I love and discover new aspects of myself. I am building myself up to the woman I want to be. As I think back on everything I’ve been through, I feel ready to move on from this chapter. I’m not hiding behind the label of “in recovery” anymore. As scary as it is to admit, the world as I know it has changed for the better and i with each day that passes I feel more ready to call myself “recovered.” The days are brighter and filled with so much love and laughter. I’m healing, I’m growing, and I’m focused on growing as a sister, as a daughter, as a colleague, and a friend.
Recovery taught me that life isn’t about perfection but about presence. It’s about embracing each day as it comes and showing up for myself—not because I am chasing perfection but because I believe I am worthy of that care and attention. I have so much space now to do what I love and unearth unknown parts of myself.
I hope to continue growing even in difficult times, and to be someone who creates space for growth. I want to meet challenges with the same resilience my family has shown me, and to see failure as a step forward and as a learning opportunity. As I open the page to the next chapter of my life, I’m choosing to live with intention and continue exploring the world with curiosity and a gentle heart.
I want to keep changing, learning, and showing up for myself. All while remembering that healing is not linear, and that growth built with consistency. I will find joy in the process, revel in the rest days, and I will not chase unattainable ideals. Instead, I will chase the thrill of trying new things and running after opportunities as they open for me, because even when it’s hard and scary, even when it’s downright terrifying, I’ve learned that everything worth doing begins with the courage to try.
-hammie
11:00 AM
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