Recovery has no endpoint.

In June 2000, six months after being discharged from the pediatric ward at Emanuel Hospital, my treatment team officially declared me recovered, complete with a paper certificate (I kid you not). At age 16, I sauntered out of the Kartini Clinic in NE Portland, incredibly relieved that a tough chapter of my life was behind me.

Of course, this was the year 2000 and no one told me that “being recovered” at that time meant that I had been “weight restored.” Yes, there was a bit of therapy where I was just told that my eating disorder was all about seeking control but the main goal was just to get me to a goal number on the scale.

For the next few years I strutted around flaunting my “recovered” status like a badge of honor. I WAS A SUCCESS, GUYS. I gave talks at college about my hospitalization and recovery. In my mind, I was the mf’ing poster child of recovery - the best patient, the most compliant, the quickest recoverer there ever was. A PLUS GOLD STAR.

Probably to no one’s shock but my own, I then relapsed. Hard. And tried to pull myself out of it half-heartedly, warding off my college’s threats to kick me out of school. Enter residential treatment, enter a revolving door of therapists. Enter the shame of not being a success at the thing I told everyone I was so good at: recovery. The poster child of recovery became the poster child of relapse.

While the rollercoaster of this cycle continued for the past 20 years, on the eve of this Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I realize I’ve been in recovery this time for five years. Five years since I entered Opal Food & Body in Seattle. Five years since I stopped hiding behind the cycle of shame.

Five years of embracing myself and coming into my own.

And despite it being a pretty solid five years, I am still “in recovery.” Twenty years from now, I will still be “in recovery.” On my death bed (which I hope is 50+ years away!), I will tell you that I am “in recovery.”

For me, recovery does not have an endpoint.

When I was in residential treatment after college, 4 times a week we would get in the center’s van and head to either an Overeaters Anonymous meeting or an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. While I have (fortunately) never had an issue with alcohol, I adored the AA meetings. I loved the people, I loved the community, and I loved the way they talked about their addiction. I continued to go to AA meetings on my own for years after.¹

Eating disorder treatment has since veered away from the 12-step model, but the language I took with me from those meetings has lasted (serenity prayer, anyone?!). And most importantly, I took with me the concept that recovery is a lifelong journey.

There is no recoverED. There is only recovering.

I know many in the eating disorder treatment world would disagree with me. I know many people who will say they are recovered. I have no qualms with that and I am genuinely happy for them.

But for me, the moment that I say I am recoverED is the moment I am primed for relapse.

I’ve often wondered why eating disorder treatment doesn’t apply the same continual notion to recovering as the world of addiction. Is it to give people hope? That they can be fully recoverED? To give them an impetus to actually try and get better?

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent more of my life with this disorder than without it, but it doesn’t work like that for me. I used to think that recovery meant I would never have disordered thoughts about food or calories again. I thought recovery would be a metaphorical lobotomy - just magically taking the encyclopedic knowledge of calorie counts and all of those thoughts out of my brain (gosh, wouldn’t that be lovely?!).

It took me way too long to learn that’s not what recovery is. These thoughts are going to be my constant companion for the rest of my life: sometimes louder, sometimes quieter. The more I don’t listen to them or act on them, the quieter they become. But my brain is never going to function like a “normal” person who hasn’t had a lifetime in and out of anorexia. (sadly, I am never going to forget the calorie count of an avocado or a serving of hummus or a slice of pizza no matter how much I try).

Lest you think this is depressing and discouraging, please let me be clear that recovery IS worth it even if it never has an endpoint. But it’s a tricky bastard: unlike many addictions, it’s not black and white (e.g., you are either drinking alcohol or you are not). Much to my personality’s chagrin, it exists fully in shades of gray.

Then what does recovery look like for me?

It means that my brain space and energy isn’t dedicated to obsessing about food. It means I can go out to dinner with friends without being an anxious mess. It means I can catch myself when I start to backslide and course correct, using the tools I have in the toolbox. It means I can be fully present for others and show up authentically. It doesn’t mean that I’m not going to have tough days, or even weeks or months. It doesn’t mean the thoughts are gone.

But if this is what the rest of life is like, I’m good with it. I don’t need the A+ gold star recovery badge: I just need to be able to enjoy and experience life.

One day at a time. Progress not perfection. Easy does it.

1. I attended both OA and AA meetings but I honestly found the AA meetings to be more beneficial for a number of reasons. 12-step models can be imperfect when it comes to food, and I could write a thesis on this subject but I will spare you for now.