I am still learning what it feels like to run without a calorie counter going off in my head. The batteries are worn out – not dead, and every once in a while, it turns back on to remind me when I can stop and when I can eat.

I am still introducing myself to my new body every day — my stronger body, my fluffier body.

I am still learning how to forgive myself.

I look through pictures of myself from three years ago and have a hard time organizing my emotions, because that’s what it comes down to. I have to sort my emotions like laundry. Light. Colorful. Dark. I see a physically smaller person. I see a smile from ear to ear and drink in my hand. I remember circling dates on calendars; I had to be perfect for halftime performances and music festivals. When I lived on campus, I bought a meal plan with less meals per week because it would “help me cut back.”

Running took over my life. At absurd times of the day and night, I ran through town and out to the country roads. I ran for miles on a treadmill, staring down my own reflection, hoping for some of it to disappear. The batteries were fresh at that point; the calorie counter in my mind counted everything burned and everything consumed. I memorized formulas that told me how many calories I burned for each minute I ran, for the number of stairs I climbed or the amount of laps that I swam.

I finally quit cheerleading.

I moved home, transferred schools, and moved in with my best friend.

It took me almost a year in my new environment before I asked for help. I cried to a nurse at Planned Parenthood, desperately wanting to gain control of my health. The truth is, from the beginning, I thought I was gaining control over my health – I was losing the weight that I obsessed over, I could see my abs in all my pictures and finally got to that “cheer body” that I was killing myself over. Wasn’t that control?

It took a few solid rounds of trial and error before being able to appreciate the body that I’m in. Going through periods of “I hate the gym and I love myself” and then seasons of “I hate myself and I need to go to the gym,” it took a couple of hard pushes for me to get back into fitness after it almost destroyed me.

I focus on “strong” now.

There is no guilt when I decide to skip the gym nowadays. When I go, I focus on the fun parts of my workout, the things I enjoy. Most importantly, I stop whenever I want. Sometimes I still hear that calorie counter, it is just easier to ignore. I’m thankful I’m done being a cheerleader and a softball player. Constantly competing, constantly being in the environment where, without a thought, you find yourself comparing yourself to everything else around you. That helps.

It feels good when I say that I am finally feeling strong again. I’m back to lifting weights. I’m finally appreciating my body for what it can do and what it can come back from. It’s hard to “go back to fitness” after an eating disorder. Expectations are high, but your body is healing.

I've written about the different dimensions of my eating disorder and my recovery. With each day, my experience changes. Almost every day I am reminded of the hate that I once harbored for myself, and every day I work to unapologetically love myself.