Living with an eating disorder is like having a mind that constantly wages war on itself—a battle between rationality and irrationality. It’s telling yourself you don’t deserve to eat until 3:00 p.m. even though all the literature and cereal boxes announce, “People who eat breakfast are proven to maintain a healthier weight.” The information is there. My brain processes it. And yet, I haven’t eaten a formal breakfast in close to four years.

The hardest emotional challenge of my summer involved sorting through and donating my “sick” clothes—the clothes that fit me (or were loose on me) when I weighed 95 pounds in high school and gradually dipped to 85 lbs. at the beginning of my sophomore year of college.

I had kept those clothes—from as far back as eighth grade—hoping that one day I would fit into them again. That I would one day be disciplined and controlled enough to starve myself to the point where I could squeeze into my size 0 skinny jeans. An irrational hope and an unhealthy expectation.

Looking in the mirror as I attempted to squeeze my favorite pair of denim shorts over my hips, I asked myself, How could I allow myself to get this fat? The question circled through my brain as I threw each tiny garment into the bin marked “Donation.” But could I expect myself—now a senior in college—to be able to fit into the clothes I wore at age 15? I know few people who do. So, why was I being so hard on myself?

There are few moments in my life where I have felt good about my body. The number on the scale could never be low enough. I have endangered my own life multiple times through detrimental behaviors that have put me in the hospital twice and plagued me for nearly 10 years.

I try to accept and comprehend rational truths and suppress the irrationality that rears its ugly head, telling me to exercise for 30 more minutes or refrain from eating for hours on end. Though the process is not (and may never be) complete, I have started to accept who I am and who I have become as I have restored weight and worked to maintain my current shape.

I have curves, my thighs touch; I don’t have a “skinny pack,” my stomach is not flat. Two years ago, none of that was true. Two years ago, I fit into those clothes sitting in the “Donation” bin. But I’ve grown and my body has changed as I’ve developed. I lift weights more than I run, have put on muscle that makes the arms of my sweatshirts a little snug.

All along, I have looked at women of all shapes and sizes and considered how radiant and beautiful they are. But I found beauty in how they carried themselves, their smile, their poise and character. Beauty is so much more than being a size 0.

I continue to struggle with body dysmorphia and body positivity on a regular basis. It gets worse when I’m tired, stressed, or anxious about food and exercise. The best thing I’ve done for myself is to try to stop comparing myself to others or to my past self. I don’t look at pictures from when I was malnourished, I avoid full-length mirrors when I get ready in the morning, I surround myself with people who don’t obsess over every calorie and every bicep curl.

My rational brain tells me that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes; it is “in the eye of the beholder.” To all women struggling to love their bodies and radiate confidence, don’t dwell on the past or the comments, behaviors and shapes of others.

We are all different. I think if we can appreciate and accept these differences, we can move past irrationality and superficial comparisons. Only then can we live our happiest, fullest, most self-fulfilled lives.