When most people think of “eating disorder,” what springs to mind is anorexia or bulimia, usually accompanied by a mental image of a painfully thin woman. But like most things in life, the reality is much more nuanced, yet sadly, even health professionals fail to recognize people’s symptoms if they don’t fit the textbook definition.
For years, my eating disorder flew under the radar because I maintained a “healthy” weight while secretly cycling between restriction and bingeing that didn’t fit neat tick boxes. The medical establishment’s narrow focus on extreme thinness and specific behaviors meant my eating disorder went unaddressed and untreated. Today, I share my story to help others recognize that eating disorders exist across a spectrum and to push for better understanding from the medical community.
The early signs: disordered patterns in adolescence.
When I was 13, mint polos sustained me through many school days. Somehow, I convinced myself this was normal—that surviving on nothing but hard candy until dinner qualified as self-control rather than the beginning of a dangerous pattern. My relationship with food had already begun to fracture, creating fault lines that would deepen over the coming years.
Those periods of restriction inevitably gave way to something else entirely, though it didn’t follow a predictable pattern. My “self-control” sometimes lasted weeks, other times it lasted only a day. Once I’d lost it, I’d find myself devouring an entire pack of biscuits in minutes after school, while my parents were still at work. I would barely taste them as they disappeared. Afterward came the shame, I’d either replace the biscuits before my parents realized or I’d blame my chemistry tutor for the missing food.
This cycle established itself quietly in my teenage years. Research shows this is common—according to the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders, by age 14, 60-70% of girls are trying to lose weight, and 22% of children and adolescents have disordered eating that could either lead to or already indicate an eating disorder.
My parents didn’t notice the extremes in those early days. I maintained good grades, participated in activities, and appeared to eat normally during family meals. The secrecy that characterizes many eating disorders kept mine well hidden, allowing it to strengthen its grip on my daily life without intervention.
University: freedom fueled the fire.
University life and living away from home for the first time removed the guardrails that had somewhat contained my disordered eating.
Freedom from my parents’ observation meant freedom to restrict and binge without questions. Two weeks before a group holiday during my first year, anxiety about my weight and disgust at my lack of control prompted me to survive on nothing but a single cup of 93-calorie rehydrated soup daily. My friends marveled at my “willpower” while I battled light-headedness and fatigue.
Alcohol complicated everything. Drinking lowered my inhibitions around food, often leading to late-night binge episodes after restricting all day. These binges began to be followed by occasional purging in the privacy of my bathroom—though not consistently enough to fit the neat diagnostic criteria for bulimia.
The unpredictability of my symptoms kept me believing I didn’t have an eating disorder. Some weeks, I maintained rigid control, measuring and restricting every morsel. Other periods dissolved into daily binges, eating until physically ill, consumed by shame and self-loathing. But according to research, this “dietary chaos” pattern—swinging between restriction and bingeing—is actually more common than the stereotypical presentations we see in media.
My weight fluctuated, but never dramatically enough to raise concern. Standing at almost 5’9″, my lowest weight of 8.5 stone (119 lbs) still registered as technically “healthy” on BMI charts, as did my highest weight of 11.5 stone (161 lbs). This middle-ground existence meant I appeared fine on paper while suffering immensely in private.
Seeking help: the first disappointing attempts.
Depression descended during the start of my second year of university, compelling me to withdraw from my studies.
Moving back home and working full-time provided structure but did little to address my underlying issues with food and body image. In addition to the disordered eating, I began to exercise excessively, carefully calculating how long I needed to walk for, to burn off the calories of the little I had consumed. I would weigh myself after consuming any food to check I hadn’t gained weight. Every time I went to the bathroom I would check my stomach to assess how flat it was. My mother, concerned about my increasingly disturbing behavior, and realizing my eating patterns were not normal, contacted a specialist on my behalf.
The telephone call stands out in my memory for all the wrong reasons. The specialist seemed fixated solely on my weight. He told my mother he couldn’t help me because I weighed too much. Apparently, I needed to be near six stone (84 lbs) to be deserving of help. I felt invalidated and ashamed, clearly I should just be able to snap out of this on my own.
This experience reflects a troubling reality in eating disorder treatment. A 2017 study in the International Journal of Eating Disorders found that individuals with atypical presentations often face significant delays in diagnosis and treatment, compared to those with textbook anorexia nervosa. In some cases, like mine, these delays can exceed 10 years. The focus on weight as the primary diagnostic criterion means countless individuals suffering from serious eating disorders are turned away from treatment. This is absurd when you consider that the evidence shows those in larger bodies are actually at the greatest risk of developing an eating disorder.
My early twenties continued in this pattern—cycling between restriction, bingeing, walking for hours on end, and an occasional side of purging. But still, I was never quite physically unwell enough for medical intervention.
Finally finding support: diagnosis and treatment.
Seven years after that first dismissive specialist, I reached my breaking point.
Exhausted by the mental gymnastics of food obsession, and after a frank chat with one of my sisters, I contacted my local psychological therapy service through self-referral. During the assessment, I described my chaotic eating patterns without minimizing or exaggerating. The clinician listened attentively before explaining that I did, indeed, have an eating disorder. I was diagnosed with “Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified” (EDNOS, now called OSFED—Other Specified Feeding or Eating Disorder).
Learning that my experience had a name was a huge turning point. As we’ve mentioned OFSED (formally EDNOS) is actually the most common eating disorder, yet public awareness remains focused on anorexia and bulimia, leaving many suffering in silence.
The education and cognitive behavioral therapy I received revolutionized my understanding of my disorder. Learning about the physiological impacts of restriction—how it biologically primes the body for bingeing as a survival mechanism—removed much of the shame I’d carried. The Minnesota Starvation Study conducted in 1950 confirmed this biological reality: food restriction reliably triggers compensatory biological mechanisms including heightened food preoccupation and eventual bingeing. I’m a scientist at heart, so with this knowledge alone, a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. If I stopped restricting, there was a good chance I’d stop, or at least, significantly reduce, bingeing. And if I wasn’t bingeing, I wouldn’t be so tempted to restrict myself to counteract the shame and loss of control.
Sessions focused on normalizing my eating patterns, challenging distorted thoughts about food and body, and developing healthier coping mechanisms for difficult emotions. Gradually, the extreme swings between restriction and bingeing moderated. And with that, the obsessive thoughts about food began to quiet.
Keeping on track: recognizing the warning signs.
Despite vowing never again to monitor and restrict my diet, and years of a more relaxed approach to food, pregnancy brought unexpected challenges.
Gestational diabetes during both pregnancies required careful monitoring of carbohydrate intake—medically necessary restrictions that triggered old thought patterns. The daily blood sugar testing and food logging reawakened the controlling behaviors I’d worked so hard to overcome.
After maintaining stable eating patterns and a stable weight for over a decade, I learned that certain situations still triggered my old tendencies. The difference now was my ability to recognize warning signs before the behaviors escalated.
Making sense of it all: realizing and understanding the connection with neurodivergence.
Seven years later, family diagnoses of autism and ADHD prompted me to explore my own traits.
Deep diving into the research revealed illuminating links between eating disorders and neurodivergence. Studies consistently show significantly higher rates of eating disorders among autistic people and those with ADHD. Research shows that 20-30% of women with eating disorders are autistic or have high autistic traits, compared to approximately 1% in the general population. People with ADHD are more likely to have eating disorders that involve episodes of binge eating and purging. Autistic, ADHD, and AuDHD women are also more likely to go undiagnosed or misdiagnosed, in part because they show their traits differently from the stereotypically male presentation. This means they are left not understanding a crucial part of themselves which is likely contributing to their eating behaviors.
My own tendencies toward black-and-white thinking, rigid rule-following, and need for control suddenly made sense through this lens. Foods became categorized as entirely “good” or “bad” with no middle ground. Eating patterns were either “perfect” or failures deserving punishment. The impulsivity and dopamine seeking associated with ADHD likely contributed to my bingeing episodes, while the rigidity linked to autism facilitated the restrictive periods.
This understanding provided crucial context for developing ongoing management strategies, which I was able to put to the test during a recent diagnosis of borderline high cholesterol. I initially overcorrected and started to eliminate food groups with excessive zeal, before realizing I was falling back on my black-and-white thinking and perfectionist tendencies. I knew if I carried on restricting in this way, I was only going to lose control and go too far the other way.
Today’s approach involves conscious balance—enjoying treats without guilt, eating nutrient-dense foods without moralistic language, eating snacks and regular meals so that I never get too hungry, and allowing flexibility rather than rigid rules.
Physical health matters, but mental well-being requires equal attention. Maintaining this balance remains an ongoing practice rather than a destination.
The bigger picture: diet culture and diagnostic failures.
Eating disorders thrive in the fertile ground of diet culture.
The $72 billion diet industry profits from the same disordered eating patterns it claims to solve. Temporary weight loss followed by regain leads consumers back to the next program, creating a profitable cycle while normalizing disordered behaviors.
A national survey revealed that medical professionals receive minimal or inadequate training in eating disorders. This educational gap leaves many ill-equipped to recognize the diversity of eating disorder presentations, particularly in patients who don’t appear stereotypically underweight.
Perhaps most concerning is the persistent weight stigma in healthcare and society at large. Higher-weight individuals experiencing the same eating disorder symptoms as lower, or underweight individuals, often receive recommendations to go on a restrictive diet to lose weight—the very behavior that can trigger or worsen their eating disorders.
The single-minded focus on weight rather than behaviors means countless individuals suffering from serious eating disorders never receive proper care. Eating disorders are all-consuming. Their link to a wide range of physical and mental health problems, social and relationship difficulties, and increased mortality rate has been long established.
Final thoughts…
Recovering from my eating disorder transformed my relationship not just with food but with my entire self-perception.
It required me to challenge my fundamental beliefs about worth, control, and embodiment. The journey from chaos to stability wasn’t linear, but each step toward balanced eating represented movement away from suffering.
For anyone recognizing their own struggles in these words—whether you’re “too heavy” for anorexia, “not consistent enough” for bulimia, or simply trapped in cycles of restriction and shame—please know your suffering is valid and treatment is possible. Eating disorders exist across all body sizes, genders, ages, and presentations.
The path forward involves both individual healing and collective action. We must demand better education for healthcare providers, expanded diagnostic criteria that capture diverse presentations, and treatment approaches that address the full spectrum of disordered eating.
Ten years into recovery, I advocate fiercely against restriction, embrace joyful movement rather than punitive exercise, and practice flexible, enjoyable eating that nourishes both the body and spirit. This balanced approach provides the freedom that rigid rules and chaotic patterns never could.
Your suffering deserves recognition and treatment, regardless of your weight or how neatly your symptoms fit existing categories. Healing begins with this acknowledgment and the courage to seek support despite a system not yet designed to see you fully.
