Of all things in life, I am struggling with my thighs at the moment. 5% of my body, 1% if that, and yet I can't stop.

Diary entries written from 2018 to 2019, writing this blog post is the first time I read them from start to finish.

I am more afraid of, threatened by weekends than weekdays. Mental health ruins my capacity for fun.

Today is my friend's birthday. Not even about me and yet I feel nervous, the eating disorder like a Scarlett Letter on my dress.

I have to consciously not overthink body change. Otherwise it will get to me that I no longer look or feel how I used to.

In terms of what ‘success’ means to me - my business is far from it. And when I fail in business, I fail elsewhere.

Cellulite has been my nemesis since the age of 16, I still struggle with it twelve years later.

Yoghurt is a fear food; although I took the plunge and bought one to have for dessert, I freaked out and never ate it. Here's why.

I continue to cancel or decline events and then feel sad to miss out. My choice, driven more out of fear than want.

Adjusting to body change is difficult and uncomfortable. I don't particularly like it.

What will it take for others to acknowledge and understand the extremity of an eating disorder?

Diet culture language is 'normal' - we hear it daily - and yet nobody admits to disordered thoughts. Is there really any difference?

I love Christmas - but I haven't left myself live Christmas since the eating disorder came into existence.

The eating disorder has taught me to worry. I overthink, lose sleep - and when it panics, I panic.

Sharing recovery highs is one thing - admitting to slipping up is shameful, weak, even.

I am scared and embarrassed to admit to my slip-ups, failures, in recovery. Here's the truth.

Food should be earned and energy burnt off. Is there really any other way?

Living with an eating disorder is like having a second job. The worst boss.

In May 2020, I admitted to my family and friends that I have been living with an eating disorder for over eight years.