Eat with Harmony: NEDA Inspired Blog
Harmony
By: Kayla Cowart
I’ve had anxiety for as long as I can remember. One of my most vivid memories is being in my bedroom when I was 5 telling my dad that I couldn’t go to sleep because I was afraid the house would catch on fire. I grew up obsessing over being buried alive or dying suddenly. I slept with my hand over my heart so that I could feel if it stopped beating.
By the time I was 7 I was suffering from a chronic stomach ache brought on by my endless anxiety—but I didn’t know that. No one did. Instead of addressing the issue I gained another: I was 9 years old when I began vomiting after every meal. I ate when I was hungry, and threw up when my stomach hurt. The strategy that once made the most sense to me is now the most heartbreaking.
The point I’m trying to make is that my aversion to food at a young age wasn’t caused by vanity, but fear—food would only make my already exhausting existence more painful. It was this fear that fueled my disorder.
Eventually, I stopped throwing up. At 10 years old, my esophagus was irritated and I constantly had heartburn. I learned at a young age that you can’t control much about life, but you can control what goes into your body. This was only perpetuated by a conversation I had with my mom the summer between 7th and 8th grade. She pressed upon me about the importance of diet and exercise, and she was right—it is pivotal to move and nourish your body. She wasn’t even to blame when she used the four-letter word: diet.
She was one mother in a long line of mothers who followed the same age-old pattern, the cultural norm so embedded in our society that it’s considered a parenting milestone to discuss this “responsibility” with our children. The “responsibility” to be small. The “responsibility” to take up as little space as possible.
For me, dieting started with 100-calorie packs of snacks, sit-ups after every meal and Slim Fast shakes for breakfast. It progressed to tracking Weight Watchers points and eating only Special K products for days, which then escalated to stealing my mom’s diet pills and diuretics. When I got to high school, dieting was an hour and a half of cardio and 1,000 sit-ups every day. I only ate dinner to appease my family, I kept track of every morsel that entered my body and berated myself for any “slip ups” or “mistakes.” Dieting was popping 4 laxative pills after a night of drinking beer and eating french fries and shitting my best friend’s bed. It was going vegetarian at 15 because there were less foods I was “allowed” to eat. I was depressed. I was lonely. And still, that stomach ache lingered.
I moved through college in a similar fashion. Bulimia was more relevant these years due to hangover food. I had never allowed myself to eat Jack in the Box tacos or Whataburger taquitos before. And, holy shit, were they delicious—but they were the enemy.
I started doing yoga heavily my junior year of college. My practice was originally focused on ego; it was just another way I could control my body. I was queen of the tricks and took every opportunity to show off my skills in class. I thrived. I also realized that if I wanted to do cool things, I needed to be strong, and to be strong meant I needed to eat. This was hard to swallow. How could I control and manipulate situations in my favor if I was already being dictated by my need to eat? I jumped on the clean eating train. I learned that there were good foods and bad foods. Clean and dirty. Junk and healthy. Life, and food, became black and white. All or nothing.
My friends at one point referred to me as an extremist, which bothered me at the time but now I get it. I taught myself how to cook and dove head-first into diet culture. I lived there obsessively for six years. I tried it all. Advocare (can I get a giant eye roll?), paleo, no meat, Beachbody 21-Day Fix (what, like I’m broken?) no sugar, juice cleanses, ItWorks body wraps (they don’t work), veganism, that disgusting cayenne pepper drink every morning and forcing myself to do workouts I hated. I even considered a diet of only bananas. Seriously?
I was orthorexic, which I believe is the most prevalent eating disorder in our society. My obsession absolutely consumed me. I felt the physical and mental chains tightening every day. I was heavy with depression, isolation, and anxiety, but I ignored all of the red flags in a very dangerous way.
My only saving grace—besides my dog—was my yoga practice. People with eating disorders are fixated on their physical form, yet experience a sheer disconnection from their bodies at the same time. However, yoga connected me, body to soul, in a way I had never experienced. Yoga softened me. It made me slow to anger, more present and easy to forgive. Learning how to properly breathe calmed my nervous system and lessened my anxiety. Yoga empowered me; the physical practice made me strong as hell and the emotional aspect invoked peace, self compassion, mindfulness and self empathy. As it began to seep its way into my soul, I slowly rose from the hell I had created. Over the course of a few years, I took my first yoga teacher training, and then a second, which completely changed my life. Then, I checked myself into an eating disorder treatment center.
I have been in recovery for over two years now. I have learned so much about myself and those around me. I know my body. I know what it likes, I know what it dislikes. I move in a way that is nourishing and kind. I eat intuitively which is powerful and beautiful. If you give your body a chance, it will guide you as you learn to listen with care, attention, and intention. Yoga helps with all of this. It’s medicine. Recovery isn’t easy. But, with patience, self compassion, grace, and one hell of a support system, it can be done. There is no linear growth. I’m good, great, amazing, and then incredibly shitty all within a day. Despite the consistent struggles and changes, I have never felt so connected and in tune with my body. She and I are in harmony for the first time in my life and I have yoga to thank for that.
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