Mia's Story

For as long as I can remember, athletics have been a huge part of who I am. It’s where I found confidence, community, and purpose. But what many people don’t see behind the finish lines and race photos is the silent struggle I faced with my body, food, and self-worth. Like so many young athletes, I got caught in the pressure to be faster, leaner, “better”, until it nearly broke me. This is my story, not just of the challenges I faced, but of the strength it took to heal, and the hope I now carry for others navigating the same path.

The Beginning

I started swimming for my local swim team at the age of seven. I didn’t join because I was particularly fast or because I had dreams of becoming an Olympian. I joined because I was a little kid looking for connection. I wanted somewhere to belong. But before long, swimming became so much more than just an after-school activity. I quickly fell in love with the water and the rhythm of training. I began spending more time at the pool, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Swimming became my anchor. It wasn’t just about staying active; it was where I truly felt like myself. It introduced me to some of the closest friendships I’ve ever had and connected me with coaches who believed in me and shaped who I was becoming. The pool was my safe space. On hard days, it was where I went to let it all out: the stress, the pressure, the self-doubt. In the water, everything felt quieter, more manageable. Swimming helped me learn how to work hard, how to compete, and how to keep going even when things got tough. Most of all, I loved the structure that swimming gave me. My only mission was to get from point A to point B as fast as I could.

But somewhere along the way, that love started to get complicated.

Covid-19

In March 2020, I remember seeing headlines about a new virus called the Coronavirus. At first, it didn’t seem real—just another distant news story. Even when school moved online and the pools shut down, I kept telling myself it was temporary. Everything will be back to normal in a week or two, I thought.

But things didn’t go back to normal. And once I realized that, I started to unravel.

I’ve always been someone who craves structure. I like knowing what comes next, having a plan, crossing things off my to-do list. I find comfort in routine. So when the world shut down, it felt like everything that grounded me—school, swimming, schedules—was suddenly gone.

At first, the changes seemed small. Harmless, even. But looking back, that was the beginning of something much darker.

Road to an Eating Disorder

For the first time in my life, I started paying close attention to what I was eating. At first, it seemed harmless: I cut back on sugar, thinking it was just a small step toward being “healthier.” But that one step quickly turned into more. I began cutting out foods I labeled as “bad,” then started tracking everything I ate. The numbers became a measure of success, a way to feel in control when everything else felt uncertain.

Eventually, it consumed me. Every day revolved around food and exercise: what I would eat, how I could burn it off, when I would work out next. I wasn’t living; I was calculating. I became obsessed with routines and rules, convinced they were making me stronger, more disciplined, more “in control.”

I loved setting goals for myself. I made me feel accomplished to hit a certain calorie burn and eat below a certain number. But deep down, I was exhausted. The more I chased control, the more I lost myself.

Asking for Help

Even though my eating disorder had taken over so much of my life, there were still quiet moments when I wondered, Is this really normal? But the truth is, I didn’t understand what was happening. I was barely 11 years old: no one had ever talked to me about eating disorders.

Whenever I thought about reaching out for help, another voice would shut me down, the voice of the disorder. It told me I was being dramatic, that asking for help meant I was weak. That voice promised me things: If you just eat a little less, work out a little more, you'll finally feel happy. You'll finally feel enough.

My parents started noticing something was off. I was losing weight. I stopped spending time with friends. I ate almost nothing. I exercised constantly. But the part that scared them most was how much my personality faded. They gently asked questions, encouraged me to eat a little more. Every time, I gave the same answer: No, I’m okay.

Midway through the summer of 2020, I went in for my annual doctor’s appointment. I remember the doctor smiling and saying, You’re as skinny as a stick! So pretty! To me, that felt like validation. Like I was doing something right by starving myself.

But a few weeks later, I broke. I couldn’t keep it in anymore. One night at the dinner table, I broke down in tears and finally said the words: I need help. Something is wrong.

Things moved quickly after that. I had bloodwork, an EKG, and other tests done. A few hours later, my parents got a call: I needed to go to the hospital. The two-hour drive there is a blur. I don’t remember crying much. I just felt numb.

Hospital

The week I spent in the hospital was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I had a feeding tube inserted down my throat and was constantly hooked up to machines that beeped through the night. Every morning at 4:30 AM, nurses came in to take my blood and weigh me. I wasn’t allowed to walk, so my only time out of bed was a 20-minute wheelchair ride around the hallway each day. I felt trapped—physically, emotionally, mentally.

When I was finally discharged, I thought the worst was over. I figured all I had to do was gain the weight back, and then everything would go back to normal. I had no idea how much harder the real work would be.

Recovery

I quickly learned that recovery wasn’t just about eating more or gaining weight. It was about rebuilding my entire relationship with food, my body, and exercise piece by piece.

For months, I wasn’t allowed to do any sports. At first, that felt unbearable. Sports had always been my outlet, my happy place, the thing that made me feel like me. Losing that connection was painful and isolating. But over time, that break helped me realize that my worth isn’t tied to my athletic performance or how many calories I burn. It taught me to appreciate movement for joy, connection, and growth, not punishment.

Recovery has taken me through many different treatment paths, cognitive behavioral therapy, family-based therapy, and countless sessions with a nutritionist who helped me unlearn the fear around carbs, fats, and food in general. I’ve had to face a lot of discomfort, sit in feelings I used to run from, and challenge beliefs I thought were facts.

I’m still in recovery today. I’m much healthier than I was five years ago, but I won’t pretend everything’s perfect. I still haven’t gotten my period back. I still have days when the eating disorder thoughts creep in. There are moments of frustration, moments when I ask: Why me? Why is this taking so long? Will it ever really get better?

But when those thoughts show up, I remind myself of how far I’ve come. I remind myself that the girl who once cried at the dinner table is now telling her story. That healing isn't linear—and that doesn’t make it any less real.