My journey with an eating disorder, which is less a journey and more a landscape where only reckless angels tread, began when I was still a child. I’ve battled both anorexia and bulimia (I’m pretty sure it has all been anorexia binge purge type but I’ve been diagnosed with both anorexia and bulimia) throughout my life, finding myself on unsteady ground as I navigated adolescence, adulthood, and now middle age.

At 20, I found out I was, against the odds, somehow pregnant and entered a state of quasi-recovery for my growing baby son. When he turned 2, I relapsed with anorexia aged 23 and stayed in that absolute mess until I entered recovery aged 29 when my BMI was deemed severe enough for treatment. I became weight restored for the next 12 years, but at 40, my eating disorder returned — and that’s where I am now.

Struggling with anorexia at 40 doesn’t even feel like the same illness I struggled with at 20. Despite the fact it has the same symptoms, the external factors are wildly different. Middle age brought unique challenges — physical, emotional, and societal — that no one talks about. I want to share my story, not only to shed light on these issues but also to provide the kind of understanding I desperately needed when I relapsed.

For me, the biggest challenges have been the chaotic unpredictability of perimenopause, the way my body composition shifted overnight, and the loss of identity that came as my son grew older and didn’t need me as much. These things slowly wore away at my recovery in ways I didn’t anticipate. Here’s how they affected me — and why we need to talk about them more.

The Chaos of Perimenopause

Perimenopause arrived like an unwelcome chaotic guest, with unpredictable cycles, mood swings, and anxiety that seemed to come out of nowhere. Some days I’d wake up with breast pain so sharp it scared me, while other days I’d barely notice the physical changes. These shifts weren’t stable enough to get used to, and they left me feeling constantly on edge — both physically and emotionally.

My body has had some pretty intense reactions to the hormonal shifts, including fibroadenomas (benign breast lumps) and cervical ectropion. I found the breast lump the same year my best friend died of breast cancer, and that brought with it its own grief and survivors guilt. It felt cruel to be told my lump was benign while my best friend hadn’t been so lucky. Even after the relief of knowing it wasn’t cancer, the fear lingered, as did the emotional weight of the experience. It was just one more way my body reminded me it was no longer predictable or safe.

These changes started in my mid-30s, but they didn’t push me into relapse immediately. Perimenopause is RELENTLESS — not something you can ‘adjust’ to. Every time I thought I’d got used to one symptom, another would appear for me to frantically Google – I didn’t even know cold flushes were a thing! My cycles shortened, becoming heavier and leaving me anaemic, which drained me both physically and mentally. The mood swings and anxiety were even harder to manage; I already had an anxiety disorder, but now it feels like my anxiety has taken up permanent residence in my life. I wake up with it and go to bed with it, no matter what I do.

Perimenopause doesn’t have a clear ending either. There is no crossing the finish line at a predefined date. I could be in this absolutely chaotic race for anywhere up to ten years or more. It’s been six years since I first had symptoms and I haven’t been able to get used to any of it in that time due to how the race keeps changing. I jump over hurdles only to find it’s suddenly an Iron Woman competition when I’m suffering from anaemia.

It wasn’t that perimenopause directly caused my relapse, but the way these constant changes slowly wore me down. By the time I relapsed at 40, it wasn’t just about the eating disorder — it was about trying to cope with a body and mind that felt like they were in chaos. The unpredictability made me feel completely lost at sea, and no amount of recovery tools provided me a lighthouse or could prepare me for the endless curveballs perimenopause continues to throw my way.

Ageing and Body Composition Changes.

With ageing comes body composition changes that, despite Google’s endless suggestions for ‘10 ways to blast belly fat in your 40s,’ you simply cannot control. I’ve separated this from perimenopause because it happens to AMABs too — and yes, AMABs in their 40s can also have eating disorders.

For me, I lost muscle and gained fat — at first without any weight change. My trousers suddenly didn’t fit, and my abdomen had suddenly gained some wobbly new width. It was the so-called ‘middle age spread.’

Then came the weight gain. My intake, which had kept me perfectly weight stable for years, was suddenly causing me to gain weight. That stability had been one of my safety nets in recovery. Each weigh-in at the doctor’s was proof that I could maintain control without slipping back into anorexia. But now, the same amount of food that had kept me safe was working against me.

I gained 3kg in a month, and my mind spiralled. I couldn’t stop obsessing over how my weight might continue to spiral out of control. Despite being weight restored for years, I never lost the fear of weight gain — a classic hallmark of anorexia that has haunted me even in recovery.

Here’s something they never tell you: your hunger doesn’t immediately adjust to needing fewer calories due to age. When I recalculated my intake to try and maintain my weight, I ended up hungry all the time. That hunger became a constant reminder of everything I was trying to manage — a body I no longer recognised, a mind screaming at me to do something, and the fear that I was failing all over again. Recovery is never a straight line, but knowing that doesn’t make me feel any less of a failure for struggling.

The Loss of my Coping Mechanism Due to Ageing.

Art has always been more than a hobby for me — it’s been my way of processing emotions, finding calm, and coping with recovery. Over the years, it became the one coping mechanism that truly worked. But as I’ve gotten older, my body has made it clear that I can’t rely on art anymore, and losing it has felt like losing a piece of myself.

I have a hypermobility spectrum disorder and a rib deformity, which have always made art physically challenging. But as I’ve got older, perimenopause and age-related changes to my body have made it impossible. I frequently develop costochondritis or intercostal muscle strains just from creating art, and the pain has become so severe that it limits my ability to function for months. I can no longer recover as quickly, and the consequences are far greater. As a parent, I can’t prioritise art over chores, responsibilities, or simply being present for my son, so I had to make the decision to give it up.

Hormones play a significant role in joint health, and perimenopause has made my pre-existing joint issues even worse. As I’ve got older, my hypermobility has led to more frequent injuries and chronic pain. I can’t walk as far as I used to without debilitating hip pain, and my ribs are a constant source of discomfort. The pain often leads to shortness of breath and radiates down my arm, making me think I’m having a heart attack due to the severity. It’s a relentless reminder of how little control I have over my body and how much it has changed.

The loss of art has been one of the hardest things to come to terms with. It was my way of expressing myself, of finding calm in chaos, and of staying connected to recovery. Now, without it, I feel like I’ve lost a part of who I am. It’s a constant struggle to navigate a life where the very thing that once saved me now hurts me.

Loss of the “Be the Best Mother” Identity

When I became a mum, everything changed. My son became my anchor — the reason I entered recovery and stayed there for 12 years. Even when recovery felt impossible, I kept going because I wanted to be the best, most present mum I could be for him. Back then, I wrote blog posts saying, ‘You can recover for someone else if you can’t do it for yourself.’ And that’s exactly what I did.

But here’s the thing: when your recovery is built on someone else, what happens when they grow up and need you less? My son isn’t responsible for my mental health, but the identity of being his mum — being needed — was what kept me afloat. Now that he’s grown, I’ve had to face what I avoided for so long: recovery for myself. It’s terrifying, because I don’t know how to be recovered for me.

I love that my son is grown, finding his own way, and has become so independent. Watching him thrive is one of the greatest joys of my life. But there’s no denying the sense of loss that comes with being needed less intensely and constantly.

He gave me purpose and routine. On the hardest days, or during lapses, the way he needed me was a lifeline — it stopped me from sinking too far and always pulled me out of the depths. I built my entire sense of purpose around being there for him, and now I’m left wondering: who am I without that?

How can I possibly know who I am when I’ve lost so much? I’ve lost my identity as a mother, the ability to do art, my best friend, the freedom to live without chronic pain, and any mental stability I thought I had. Who exactly is staring back at me in the mirror? Because I don’t know her. She feels like a shadow of her former self, with pieces of her life falling away all at once.

The Unique Isolation of Being 40 With An Eating Disorder

Having an eating disorder is always isolating, no matter your age. But having one at 40? I’ve felt far more isolated than I ever thought possible. I didn’t think being any more isolated was possible, but it turns out rock bottom has a basement.

I’ve found the isolation compounded by factors that no one prepared me for: perimenopause, my child growing up and becoming more independent, becoming more disabled, and the profound sense of loss that comes with all of it. These aren’t struggles I’ve ever seen represented in the eating disorder community, and it’s made me feel like I’m navigating this entirely alone.

Perimenopause alone is isolating — it’s unpredictable and chaotic. While some AFAB people seem to sail through it, others, like me, face endless challenges. And then there’s the eating disorder. The combination of the two makes it feel impossible to find someone who can really relate. How do you explain to someone that the body changes they’re also annoyed with trigger something as deep and relentless as an eating disorder?

It’s like being stuck in a no-man’s-land of silence. The world talks about perimenopause like it’s a manageable inconvenience or a punchline, and it talks about eating disorders like they only happen to teenagers – I’ve even experienced eating disorder spaces online uttering, “It’s an illness that affects young people” over and over. But here I am, navigating both at the same time, and struggling to find space for my experience to be valid — let alone supported.

If you’re an older parent too, you’re the one supporting others — no one is supporting you. And maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be as a parent. But I don’t have a support network for myself. There’s no school, or friends to see, or parents for me. I had my best friend, WeeGee, who was my found family and my safe place. She was the one person who really understood me. But since she died, it’s been just me — and websites, including here on WordPress, telling me how I should be over this by now.

When I reached out to the NHS for support, I hoped I’d find at least a safety net. Instead, I wasn’t taken seriously. They decided my entire eating disorder must be about WeeGee, completely ignoring everything else I’ve repeatedly told them. I was handed booklets on “lapse prevention” (when I know this isn’t a lapse, it’s a relapse), as if I could have somehow foreseen these triggers, with questions like, “What would you do differently next time?” But how could I have foreseen any of this? No one talks about it. You don’t know how something will affect you until you’re in it. And “next time”? I’m still in it now. I don’t know how to cope with it today, let alone think about a hypothetical future.

Don’t even get me started on the comparison thing. Why would I, a 41-year-old, compare myself to a 20-something influencer on Instagram? They’re the same age as my son. My eating disorder has never been about identity, body image, vanity, or comparison. It has been a desperate attempt to grasp at even a tiny shred of control when everything in my life has succumbed to maximum entropy.

Not a single mention of perimenopause or the unique challenges I’m facing appeared in any handout I’ve received so far. And that makes the isolation feel even heavier, even more impossible to escape.

Still Alive, I Guess.

So, here I am, still alive, struggling to find a space in this world where my experience is valid. Struggling to be heard, to be understood, and to find support that acknowledges the complex reality of being 41 and living with an eating disorder.

I’ve had an eating disorder in my 20s and in my 40s. While it’s always been trauma-based, what I’m facing now isn’t just that. It’s the intersection of trauma with the combined life-stage challenges like perimenopause, physical limitations, and redefining who I am as my amazing son becomes independent. These aren’t things I had to contend with in my younger years, and they make navigating recovery now feel like an entirely different battle.

I’m not writing this for answers or solutions — I know there aren’t any easy ones. But I’m writing it because I know I can’t be the only one feeling this way. And if that’s you reading this, I want you to know: you’re not alone.

If this resonates with you, please feel free to reach out in the comments or follow along. Maybe here, we can start building a much needed community for those of us who feel isolated in this experience. We deserve to be seen, to be heard, and to have a space where our struggles are understood.

I always end my posts with a song in memory of my best friend WeeGee who used to do the same on her blog, and this one felt perfect for this post. “We all have a hunger”.