Three years ago, I had to give up drawing.

It wasn’t emotional — it was physical. I have Hypermobility Joint Spectrum Disorder and a rib deformity, and over time it’s caused chronic rib pain from costochondritis and constant intercostal muscle strains. Things like washing dishes, carrying groceries, even drawing would flare up the pain. It was so intense I couldn’t breathe properly. It felt like having a heart attack, over and over.

When I was younger, I still had this pain, but I was able to push through. I’d always done that ever since the pain became chronic in primary school. But after I turned 35, everything got worse. Perimenopause hit. The pain around my ribs and joints ramped up. What used to be a few days of soreness became six weeks of debilitating pain.

I couldn’t afford that — not with a young son to take care of. I lost count of how many times I cried just doing the food shop. Cried washing up. Cried because I couldn’t even breathe properly without pain. So I gave up art — not because I wanted to, but because I needed to stop crying through everyday life in agony just to be a responsible mother. Being a good mother mattered to me far more than being able to do art.

The loss came after another huge one — WeeGee. She died five years ago. Losing art on top of her three years ago felt like losing myself all over again. And without art, I didn’t have a way to cope. I was trying to manage grief, parenting, chronic pain, and just existing in a body that felt like it was falling apart — and I had no outlet left.

Art had been my main coping mechanism to help me stay in recovery from anorexia, nothing else worked like art did.

Then I relapsed.

And art… came back.

That’s not romantic or metaphorical. It’s literal. With the weight loss, and with my periods switching off, the pain eased just enough. The pressure on my ribs and joints reduced. I didn’t suddenly feel amazing — I still get in a right mess with the pain — but I could draw again and push through.

That’s what makes this relapse so hard to leave. It’s not about body image. It’s not aesthetic. It’s about function. When I’m in a smaller body, my pain is less. I can walk more. Breathe more. Parent without crying over the washing up. Create again.

But I can’t stay here. This body isn’t safe either.

I wrote in my Recovery Update about how I’m taking a slow, flexible approach this time — because I have to. My body can’t handle sudden weight gain. It never could. Even in pregnancy, gaining quickly caused a permanent decline in mobility that never recovered. Last time I recovered from my ED, I followed the “all in” approach. I did everything “right.” And I still ended up in more pain than ever.

A physio once said to me, “If I could, I’d tell you to lose weight and build strength while gaining it back — but I can’t say that, because of your history.”

And he was right to stop himself. That path would’ve been dangerous for me at the time — I was finally at my set point weight, with a healthy BMI, when he said it. Had I lost weight then, I’d have fallen underweight again and risked a full relapse. But hearing it still stung — because it confirmed what I already suspected: that the “all in” recovery I worked so hard at, may have harmed my body in some way.

So this time, I’m doing things differently.

I’m building strength during recovery.

I’ve bought braces for my ribs and back. I’ve looked up physio exercises I can do at home. I’m pacing myself. Taking breaks. I’ve even adapted my art setup so I can work at better angles. This isn’t perfect. But it’s a way to try.

Drawing the Coffee Cup

The first thing I drew after years of missing art was a Starbucks cup.

It felt symbolic — for all the times I go there with my son. For the quiet moments it represents. I wanted to capture something I love, something familiar, something that felt like me. I also liked how turbulent the coffee and milk looked — just like my feelings about recovery.

I wore my new braces — it felt REALLY strange drawing with one on — but I did it. I forced myself to take breaks, even when I didn’t want to. It took WAY longer than usual, and yeah, it hurt. My ribs burned. The brace made muscles ache I didn’t even know I had. But it was pain I could push through. Not the kind that ruins me for weeks.

And for the first time in years, while I was drawing it, I felt like myself again. That feeling was EVERYTHING.

And it’s helped me so much since — especially with the hard work I’ve been doing to increase my intake.

I don’t know if I’ll get to keep drawing as I recover. That’s the bittersweet nature of every piece I will post here. Maybe the pain will return and the fatigue will be so bad I wont have the energy. Maybe I’ll have to let go of it again. But this time, I’m not giving up without trying everything I can.

I don’t want to lose myself again. Not if there’s any way to bring her with me.

This song is my anthem for this relapse, and this post and everything in it, is the reason why. This relapse is the Hardest to Be, knowing recovery will mean a deterioration but that I also can’t stay here.