Once upon a time, I sat defeated in my doctor's office as he pronounced what my parents suspected to be true: "Your daughter is showing the early signs of anorexia." It had been a couple days since I'd allowed myself to eat a decent meal and a couple months since I began to indulge the urges. I'd wake up late so I didn't have time to eat breakfast before school, then sometimes "forget" to pack my lunch. Dinner was unavoidable with my family, so usually I'd eat just enough to satisfy them. On top of that, I began to purge. My kind of purging wasn't sneaking off to the bathroom after meals (bulimia); it was a hobby I had loved since I learned how to walk- the art of running.

My father and older brother are both incredible athletes, so I inherited their love of exercise. As a kid, I would go on runs with my brother Tyler. I was always the fastest little girl on the playground. I traded walking for running at every chance I had. During my sophomore year of high school, I was recruited to the cross country team and I became my high school's top female varsity runner.

When my self-esteem began to drop and my toxic thoughts took over, I started to use cross country practice to purge. I developed the habit of running so hard that I vomited everything I'd eaten during the day. It was an easy way to erase the overwhelming guilt I felt for allowing myself to eat. My deep love for the sport of running rotted into a cancer within me. I had allowed that bright beam of passion to transform into a double-edged dagger. That cross country season coupled with my slim eating habits left me at 85 pounds from a previous 108.

My sick brain had done a stellar job of convincing me that what I was doing was OK. It was just a way to feel better about myself. I was so in denial that I even told myself that my habits were healthy. They were keeping me (too) slender, and I was getting (too much) exercise. All was well. Until it wasn't.

After too many mornings with circles under my eyes and too many skimpy dinners, my parents finally took notice. My mother has always been the person who knows me best, the person who can ALWAYS tell when something about me is off. On one school night, we sat and sobbed together as I realized that my life was truly in danger and she realized that my illness had gone so long unnoticed. She brought it up to my father, and we took a trip to the doctor. After my diagnosis, I spent two weeks out of school to get my mind and body in a good place to begin recovery. My mother and I searched for and found a remarkable therapist. I went back to school and I began eating normally again slowly but surely. But I realized quickly that my hardest task would be reclaiming the sport I loved. For months, I couldn't go for a run without that nagging voice in my head reaching a fever pitch. There were times when I'd run anyways and cause a relapse. But always, as horribly difficult as it was, I'd recover. I recovered and recovered and recovered until it started getting easier. Eating became less of a fight. Food looked more and more harmless. My body regained its healthy weight. And ever so slowly, running became a joy again.

Last Valentine's Day, I got a tattoo to remind myself of the importance of running in my life.

It reads, "Sauve Qui Peut," a French idiom meaning, "Run for your life." It symbolizes how I can use running to save my life or to destroy it. I want to remind myself always that this sport has served as one of the greatest joys of my life, and that I must never use it for destruction again.

This summer, I decided to run a race for the first time in years as another step in my recovery. I stopped racing in high school because it was too much of a risk for relapse. But a few months ago, I realized that it was time to take it back. I wanted to do something that felt like I had finally reclaimed running, and completing a race was it.

Last Saturday, I ran my first 5K in recovery with a time of 25:48. I accomplished something I once never thought I'd do. I reached a place of peace I thought I'd never reach. During my races in high school, I was in a mindset of self-harm. Last Saturday, I raced with a clear mind focused on my own health and happiness.

Now, in this afterglow of contented pride, I want to be a source of hope for anyone in a similar place. That path ahead of you that's pitch black dark CAN be illuminated. There is a lantern somewhere on that path. That lantern will lead you to a street light. And to another street light. And another, and another, and another. Eventually you will look up with weary, red eyes and broken, blistered feet and you will notice the tip of the sun just rising in front of you. Trust me. I'm enjoying my sunrise right now.