There are moments in recovery when your body might feel like a stranger.
Like it’s too much. Too unpredictable. Too hard to be with.

In those moments, it’s so natural to want to fix things — to control your food, your schedule, your symptoms. To research. To seek answers. To make the discomfort go away.

Sometimes that makes perfect sense. Especially if you’ve lived through trauma or medical gaslighting. Especially if your body has felt like a battleground, or like something you’ve had to manage rather than live inside.

And yet… there is another possibility.

There’s a moment that can happen in the healing process — a moment that feels like the ground falls out beneath you.

You’re sitting with someone you’ve come to trust. Someone who’s been helping you untangle the noise, the shame, the overwhelm. You ask a question — perhaps hoping for a clear answer, a fix, a roadmap. And instead, you hear something unexpected:

“I don’t have all the answers.”

And suddenly, your body collapses.
Grief rushes in.
Fear. Sadness. Even anger.

It’s not just disappointment — it’s something deeper. A rupture in the fantasy that someone out there could save you.

If this has happened to you, I want you to know: it makes so much sense.

In my work, I have the privilege of sitting beside many tender souls navigating a painful relationship with their body.

And what I’ve come to learn is this: body image pain is never just about how we look. It’s about how safe we feel inside our skin.

Sometimes the struggle shows up as a lifelong attempt to shrink.
Sometimes it looks like a fear of taking up space.
Sometimes it’s body hatred so familiar, it feels like truth.

We live in a world that teaches us to disconnect from our bodies. To critique them, mould them, mistrust them. And in a society steeped in fatphobia, trauma, ableism, and comparison, it makes sense that so many of us feel at war with our physical form.

But this post isn’t about learning to “love your body” overnight. It’s not about forcing positivity where there is still pain.

It’s an invitation into something gentler.

You’re just trying to take care of yourself.

So you pop on a podcast while you’re driving or doing the dishes — hoping to hear something helpful. And at first, it feels good to feel inspired. But then it starts to build: a list of things you’re apparently doing wrong. The oils you shouldn’t be using. The blood sugar hacks you should be doing. The supplements they say you need.

One minute seed oils are the devil. The next, you’re not getting enough Omega-3. One expert says breakfast is essential. Another swears by fasting. And somewhere in the middle, you’re just trying to get through your day — trying to feed yourself without shame, to survive chronic symptoms, to feel a little better in your body.

It’s no wonder you feel confused.
It’s no wonder you feel like you can’t keep up.
It’s no wonder you start wondering if you’re failing.

And it’s not your fault.

You sit down to eat, but your brain doesn't.
It’s still running — spinning through to-do lists, analyzing that conversation from earlier, or scanning ahead for what could go wrong. You’re chewing, but you’re not really there. Maybe you’re scrolling your phone, watching something, reading, anything to stay one step ahead of the noise.
And maybe you've tried to “just eat mindfully,” but it feels... boring. Uncomfortable. Even a little scary.

You’re not broken.
Your nervous system might just be doing its best to keep you safe — even while you eat.

You always say yes.
Yes to dinner plans you don’t really want to attend.
Yes to the food that’s offered, even when your body says no.
Yes to being the “easy one,” the one who never makes a fuss — even when your needs are whispering (or screaming) to be met.

People-pleasing is often praised in our culture. It can look like kindness, generosity, flexibility. But under the surface, it’s often a strategy — a way to stay safe, to avoid conflict, to secure belonging.

And here’s the thing: people-pleasing doesn’t just shape how we show up in relationships.
It can quietly shape how we show up to the table.
To food.
To our own hunger and fullness.

Fullness isn’t always just a feeling in the stomach.

For many people—especially those who have spent years in cycles of restriction, bingeing, dieting, or trying to control their bodies—fullness can bring on a tidal wave of panic, shame, or the urgent need to undo what’s just been done.

You might feel like you’ve crossed an invisible line. Like something is wrong. Like you need to fix it, make it go away, or find relief—fast.

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.

“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.