Kendall M.
Photography by Mason Schlopy
Dear Reader,
Kendall’s letter describes her personal journey with an eating disorder. We advise those who may be triggered by this topic to practice caution when reading this letter. If you are struggling, please reach out to one of the resources listed on our Resources Page.
Sincerely, The IfYoureReadingThis Syracuse Team
If you're reading this, the number on the scale does not define you.
I have been over-analyzing my body for as long as I can remember. I started worrying about my weight when I was 11 years old. I started dieting in the 6th grade. I had watched my mom do it most of my life – it couldn't be so bad, right? I weighed myself every morning without fail and I prayed the number would go down, even if it was just by an ounce. Freshman year of high school, when I was 15 years old, I developed my first eating disorder.
Every day I came home after basketball practice in high school, I would stare at myself in the mirror. I would wear a sports bra and spandex and every time I wondered why I looked so much bigger than the other girls. Why did the cheerleaders fit into them perfectly but I felt like I was spilling out of them? I stood on the scale every morning and every night, calculating just how much my weight had gone up. I downloaded an app to track my calories, aiming to hit under the estimated goal for the day. That way, I would lose weight faster. Sophomore year, COVID hit.
COVID left me, like the rest of us, without anything to do. So all I did was workout. Some days I would work out for 6 hours a day. There was a basketball court we would play on outside for hours on end. If I worked out for any less than two, I wouldn’t eat dinner. I also tried intermittent fasting, but then I would get so hungry, I would eat everything I could find in the fridge that night. I had a binge eating disorder, but I didn’t want to admit it. I often binged after everyone else was asleep, that way no one would judge me or see me eating outside of my “window.” I told myself I would just work it off tomorrow. Shaking with guilt, I would still enter everything I ate that night into my calorie app, praying it would be lower than the daily goal. But still, all that mattered was that the weight was coming off. And that’s all I cared about.
I didn’t care that my hair was thinning, or my skin was almost a lifeless color despite it being summer. My iron was low, I was vitamin D deficient, and lacking in almost every nutrient, but the number is what mattered to me. I was at the lowest weight I had ever been – but somehow, it still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t small enough to look unhealthy even though in hindsight, I definitely was. I compared myself to all of my friends, my older cousin who went through the same issues as me, anybody who had the body I wanted. I looked okay on the outside, but I was dying on the inside. I often wondered when enough would be enough and I could finally stop.
About 9 months after COVID hit, I had started a new job when things began to reopen. I was working at a nice restaurant that had opened down the street from my house. With a restaurant comes food. They let us try everything on the menu, and if you were nice to the cooks, you could get free food. I still had a love for food, despite guilt tripping myself for eating foods considered “unhealthy.” I jumped at whatever chance I could for the food and I actually jumped back up to a healthy weight. But my brain wasn’t ready for that change. Almost every night for 3 months, I would make myself throw up. Convince myself my stomach was hurting so bad that I just had to get it out of my system. That I would eat better tomorrow so I didn’t do this again. After not even healing from my first eating disorder, I had developed another one.
Somehow, I managed to stop. I don’t know how or when, but I did. I didn’t make myself throw up anymore and the calorie tracking apps were deleted from my phone. But that didn’t mean I felt any better about myself. When freshman year of college hit, I was at my heaviest. I was depressed and either found my comfort in food or I wouldn’t eat at all. It was hard for me to find time for myself, or time for the gym, which was a place I loved. My family commented on my body a lot. When they thought they were complimenting me, they were really ruining my self-esteem. I hated it. I didn’t want people to look at me or my body. I was done. So, this past summer, I made a commitment to myself. I hired a trainer to help me with meal planning and my workouts, and to make sure I was eating enough. That lasted for about a month. She and I had a long conversation and I figured out my relationship with food was not strong enough to continue this. Had it continued, I would have ended up back at square one.
I’ve learned to be much more patient with myself as I continue this journey. I don’t weigh myself, and I don’t track my calories at all anymore. I remind myself that some days are better than others. The number on the scale did not make me who I was. I let it consume me, and it took away from who I was as a person. I let the scale own me.
My journey is far from over, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t still struggling, but it’s something that has to be taken day by day. Give yourself the grace to remember that being healthy looks different for everybody and we are all made differently. The number on the scale is not what makes you who you are. Be kind to your body.
Kendall M., Syracuse University
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