Trigger Warnings:Eating Disorder, Disordered Eating, Body Dysmorphia.

A little over a month ago I wrote about my new journey with fitness and how this time, it’s going to be different. My ups and downs with fitness manifest in the ways I view my body – going to extreme measures to cut weight and developing unhealthy habits to maintain the weight I lost. Binge Eating Disorder and Bulimia worked hand in hand to chip away at the strongest pieces of me. In the midst of it all – with my obsession of counting calories and cutting out “bad” foods, with my obsession with making more time for the gym than sleep – I was enabling myself. Addicted to my “results,” I preached about a healthy lifestyle all while I was depriving my body of essential nutrients. I wouldn’t give up my lifestyle because it was “working.”

I went to a nutritional therapist. I spent months and months learning the importance of good fats and good carbs; learning how my body makes it through the day and giving it what it needs. I gained a lot of weight. All that I lost and more, I gained in the course of six months. Facing a new body every day was hard. The old me still whispered into my ear, telling me that I was gaining too much weight, telling me that I gave up on the road to perfection.

I haven’t stepped on a scale in almost a year. I have a very clear memory of the moment and the weeks to follow; I got upset and the number tallying my worth – because sometimes, that’s still how I feel. The days to follow, I quickly resorted to old ways, anxiety over the weight I gained flashed in my mind, with neon lights the number blinked over and over, blinding me from any rational thoughts. I couldn’t see anything that I had worked for in my recovery and was desperately grasping for anything that felt normal to me. I sat at on the floor in my bathroom and familiarly flushed the insides of my stomach.

Recovery is day-to-day. Recovery is having to convince myself every morning that this new life is exceedingly better than the stress and torment lived in for years. Recovery is my service dog wagging his tail and kissing my knee while I make myself something to eat. Recovery is my partner bringing me a bag of cookies because he knows they are my favorite.

I count calories a little differently these days; I’ve learned how to count macronutrients so that my body is getting all of the fat, carbs and protein that it needs to make it through each day. I train just as hard, but not as serious, not as destructive. I am not a college cheerleader anymore. I am not a college softball player anymore. I don’t focus on the pressures of being at the top of the pyramid, or the fastest on the base paths; I am not a competitor anymore.

I find comfort in my solitary workouts; early in the mornings, I am the only one in the fitness center where I live. I can look myself in the eyes and lift myself up. I get ready for my day by examining the figure in the mirror across from me and finally feel relief. I walk back into my apartment and my dog greets me at the door, ready for his walk, ready for me.

I realized the power of hydration and make sure to drink enough water every day. I make a point to move around in my boring 'ol office job, and taking my pup for a walk is the most enjoyable exercise that I get. I still get chills and a sense of extreme accomplishment when I destroy a tough workout, but it’s because I’m stronger than ever at this point. My mind is capable of more and my body is capable of more with my newfound health.

When I walk into a gym these days, I build myself up over what lies ahead. I am only getting stronger and stronger. I am moving further and further away from the monster that enabled the darkest days of my young adult life. I am thankful for those that encouraged me to search for the old and the new about me to create this stronger me. I am thankful for my partner that made me realize beauty beyond a number. I am thankful for my service animal that reminds me every day to eat and be happy; to just be, and be happy.