What Exactly Are We Doing Here?

...just learning to shoulder the weight of the world...

CW: references to disordered eating. please skip for the discovery of your new favorite song if you don’t think this piece will serve you.

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May is mental health awareness month and those of you who know me, or have been reading along for a while, know that I have a history of disordered eating that often inspires my work. Realizing the severity of my struggles almost nine years ago was the catalyst to my creative awakening, or perhaps I have it twisted and my creative calling was always meant to pave the path out of those struggles. Either way, it’s no stretch to say writing has saved me, but it feels important to acknowledge that seeking professional help has been, without a doubt, the most vital and affective aspect of healing.

The periods of time that my eating disorder was most active seemed, to me, like short, sporadic phases I could pull myself out of before it “went to far” and this ability to disrupt the behaviors on my own provided a comfortable level of denial that there was any residual problem at all when the manifestation of the disorder was less obvious. But as much as I tried to convince myself I was healthy, a nagging voice continued to nudge me in the direction of deeper examination. Our intuition always knows what we need before our minds do.

So when I started searching for a therapist to help navigate post-covid social re-entry, it was no coincidence I chose an eating disorder specialist. I told her in one of our earliest meetings I’d had issues with food in the past, but had made huge strides on the self-help route. This wasn’t untrue, but I’ve decided after 3 years of therapy that self help takes too damn long. The progress I’ve made with the help of a professional is exponentially greater than what I’m equipped to achieve on my own. References to restriction and fear around food would come up in our sessions, but I thought lingering body image issues were just an unavoidable part of being a woman raised in the 90’s-2000’s, “heroine chic” era. When she started floating the idea of going to a nutritionist it sounded slightly scary, but not entirely bad. I thought she’d help me come up with “clean eating” meal plans that would make weeknight dinners easier to figure out and perhaps even make my workouts more effective. Eating disorder brains are so demented like that. I logged my meals, while refusing to log the feelings that went with them in an app called, “recovery record” for a solid six months before it ever occurred to me that I, of all people, was in any kind of recovery.

The revelation came when we scheduled a group meeting. “That sounds fun!” I replied off the cuff in my bubbliest voice when asked how I felt about the 3 of us meeting together. But the term “treatment team meeting” immediately made it sound less exciting. The weeks between that day and the meeting itself were such a mind fuck. The feelings I kept telling them I didn’t have - I couldn’t feel- became unavoidable. It was like every emotion I’d ever suppressed rushed to the surface and sat like an anvil in my stomach. Shame, guilt, confusion, depression, anxiety, inadequacy, fear. All of the “bad” feelings I’d been avoiding to keep up my happy-go-lucky front caught up to me and I had no idea what to do with them. Then one day my nutritionist gave me an example of what a hard day for someone else might look like when honestly expressed on a log and it was like a lightbulb went off.

People admit having feelings like this? I can say that outloud?

Two things became clear in that moment: there was nothing I could say that would surprise, or scare her. I was safe to share my whole truth, even the parts that aren’t pretty or packaged in a smile. The second being, this is why it matters to share our stories. This team that my resilient little subconscious built for me had been assuring me and encouraging me to open up for months, years even, but I was convinced I would be too much for them until I heard my darkest thoughts and feelings in someone else’s voice.

The day before our team meeting I had an individual session with my therapist. I had really worked myself up and must have sounded like an immature teenager-the one I'm working to heal, I suppose. “What exactly are we doing here?” I demanded. “I feel like I’ve been duped into an eating disorder recovery treatment program. What even is this?” If the app name wasn’t enough, 3 meetings in a week should have been my next clue, but I needed someone to say it. Her response was something to the effective of: “It sounds like you know exactly what we’re doing here.”

With that came a rush of emotions, the strongest of which was relief. That scared, frustrated teenage part of me who’d been carrying so much for so long finally allowed herself to exhale.

And the group meeting the next day? It was actually pretty fun.

Little by little I’ve begun letting them in- really working to connect to my feelings and stay aware and curious rather than judgmental of my inner dialogue. Then, mustering the courage to log it honestly. Or not. Some days I still can’t. But more often than not I’m pausing to reflect on why it might be harder to do in some moments than others and giving myself the grace necessary to try again. It’s all still fresh. My steps are timid, one forward, five back, a total face plant here and there. But I’m learning to embrace that part of it too and so far have been able to pick myself up and keep going 100% of the hardest days. We all have that record, you know?

I can see now that while I had distanced myself from the most destructive of disordered behaviors, there was still a constant loop of mental olympics around what, when, if I would eat on any given day. My most self-helped self was far more consumed with food noise than I knew before it was presented in a visible way through my logs.

I often go back in my mind to pinpoint specific triggers, but my most recent uptick in restriction has been puzzling to me. It’s confusing to notice how disconnected from my emotions I’ve been because it was only a few years ago that I felt like I was verbal vomiting my feelings all over the internet every day. Then this morning the title of one of those posts popped into my mind. “May our Feelings be our Fuel”. I remember the exchange that inspired it vividly.

It was 2021. I launched my brand one month before the insurrection and I was forced to immediately decide whether I would speak honestly about the shitstorm happening in the world around me, or default to the good time girl persona I knew would keep me safe. I picked authenticity and don’t let anyone tell you there’s not hell to pay for choosing the path of most resistance. (Don’t let anyone else convince you that’s a good reason to avoid it.) My account was small and Southern enough that the backlash was mostly felt, or overheard, rarely directed at me. But one particular acquaintance loved to pick fights framed as “genuine curiosity” and I, still a chronic people pleaser, would try to respond with disarming dialogue, hoping to stand my ground while achieving my goal of having all 8 billion people on planet Earth like me.

One day she pushed me too far though and I politely told her to “fuck off”. I’m discovering this is what happens to emotional stuffers. We can keep it together really fucking well until we can’t and it all comes out sideways which only serves to perpetuate our internal narrative that we need to stifle our emotions because FFS, Ellie, you cannot go around telling everyone who bothers you to fuck off. (Turns out in 2025 that’s less frowned upon, but I don’t feel the need to as often. Therapy is for real.) She feigned a “genuine” apology (note to self: beware the people who tell you how genuine they are) and stated she hadn’t realized how sensitive I was. I’d read enough Brene Brown by that point to know vulnerability and sensitivity are not things we are supposed to be ashamed of, but it still cut me to my core.

I cried until I could hardly breathe, then channeled my emotions into the post about feelings being our fuel and I meant it. I really wanted to be able to feel everything and make something meaningful and beautiful of it. But it occurred to me today that at some point in the years since, I guess it just became too much. A rush of reassurance followed: Of course, it did. It IS too much. All the time.

The last decade has been an incredibly painful time to be remotely aware and empathetic and it only seems to be getting worse. It makes sense that I would fall back on this familiar defense mechanism my underdeveloped brain created to keep me from hurting. It works. You can’t hurt if you can’t feel anything and you can’t feel much else when you’re hungry all the time.

The difference now though is that my brain is as developed as it’s going to get and I have the capacity to care for myself in a way I couldn’t when I put this intricate survival system into place. I know I don’t need it anymore and I’m so grateful I have resources to guide me in the dismantlement of it.

There are also two new miraculously malleable brains watching me, relying on me to feel it all so I can show them that a broken heart is an open heart and there’s no limit to the amount of love an open heart can hold. It’s possible to face all of the pain this world inflicts upon us because the love is always bigger. But, it is not possible to experience the full depths of one without the other. It’s the honor of my life to be entrusted with strengthening their ability to embrace it all while traveling beside them to lighten the load when it becomes too much.

Of all I’m gleaning in the recovery realm, the most important lesson has come in realizing the weight of the world is more than anyone can carry, but relief from that truth will never be found in numbing out by hyper-fixating on the weight of my body. The anecdote lies in learning to trust that we don’t have to shoulder it alone.

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I’m focusing on a single rather than a playlist again this week because one of my most beloved teammates (who works for free but is worth her weight in gold for the way she makes me feel so seen and supported) just dropped the first track from her second album and, oh my god in heaven, it is SO fun. We love nothing more than rage walking and getting into the darkest depths of our feels, but don’t count the emo girls out for a good time. This one’s sure to keep you dancing all Summer long.

But wait, there’s more! If you, like me, love hearing the stories behind the songs you love, check out her new Substack here. I promise she will keep you endlessly inspired and entertained through all of her creative gifts. So, so proud of my soul sister, Cyrena.

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Lastly, I’m putting my plug in for the Netflix hit, “Love on the Spectrum”. I realize I’m late to the game on this one, but our whole family has been binge watching non-stop and in terms of authenticity and acceptance, there is so much we could all learn from this amazing cast and their families. If you haven’t tuned in yet, don’t sleep on this one. It’s insightful and beyond heartwarming.

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Off to go watch an episode with the fam, but I want to express my most sincere thanks to all of you for holding space for these types of pieces. I’m so grateful to be writing and sharing again. Have a wonderful weekend!