“You’re so stupid.”
“Of course you messed it up again.”
“No one else struggles like this.”

Maybe these aren’t your words.
But they’re the ones you’ve lived with.
The internal radio station that hums quietly in the background — or sometimes shouts — filled with shame, judgment, and self-criticism.

You didn’t choose this voice.
It was shaped by experiences that taught you to self-monitor, self-correct, and self-protect.
It may have helped you fit in. Avoid punishment. Stay safe. Be loved.

But what happens when that voice never turns off?

By the time most people land on my clinic couch, they’re carrying a heavy, silent belief: I’m broken.

They’ve been living with it for years—sometimes decades.
The belief that they should have figured it out by now. That their inability to stop bingeing, their constant need to control, or their overwhelming thoughts about food, mean there’s something deeply wrong with them.
That if they could just. try. harder… be better… be less… they’d finally feel okay.

And no matter how accomplished, capable, or “together” they appear on the outside, inside they feel like a failure.

Have you ever felt like you need to get a grip on food in order to feel okay?

Maybe it shows up as counting, cutting back, planning your next meal before this one is finished. Or maybe it looks like constant body-checking, scanning for softness, striving for a version of yourself that feels just out of reach.

On the surface, these patterns can look like discipline or “health.” But beneath them, something quieter is often at play: a nervous system searching for safety.

If you've ever found yourself caught in patterns of restricting food, overeating, or disconnecting from your hunger and fullness cues, you're not alone. These behaviors often aren’t just about food—they are coping mechanisms that developed when we needed to protect ourselves from pain.