Grief, ED recovery, Mental Health and all the lovely things that give my Sisyphean rock meaning
Being sick in recovery forced me to stop, and without distractions, all I could do was feel. Getting better meant facing my changing body, creatine panic, oedema, and weight gain — all at once. And through it all, I realised something: coping mechanisms work so well, they stopped me from coping.
Sick, starving, and betrayed by a single Biscoff biscuit, I’ve been trying to navigate recovery while my digestive system does parkour. Extreme hunger didn’t get the memo that I’m ill. Meanwhile, Clippy’s screaming about productivity, and Lidl’s haunted canoe won’t leave. Healing’s wild. No one warned me about buses.
Some days in recovery feel pointless, exhausting, and harder than starving ever did. But then a good day sneaks in - iced coffee, Lego, laughter with my son - and reminds me why I keep going. Yesterday didn’t fix everything, but it made another flat day in recovery bearable.
Woken by my GP and a ringtone loud enough to break the dead, I found out my liver enzymes are high and my lymph nodes still swollen. I didn’t feel much about it. Just took Sticky Junior to the doctors and kept eating sausage rolls like nothing’s wrong. Maybe nothing is.
I bought the Starbucks. I blogged. I showed up. I did the things that are supposed to help. But sometimes self-care feels like shouting into a black mirror - a screen that only reflects your own tired face back at you. And still, people ask if you’ve tried yoga.
Recovery isn’t soft lighting and healing crystals. It’s grief. It’s crying in Asda over leggings that no longer fit. It’s showing up for meals you don’t want. It’s rage, numbness, hunger, and hope tangled together. I’m not healed - but I’m trying. And that trying is what healing really looks like.
I thought gaining muscle would make me feel strong. It didn’t—not like I expected. Instead, it cracked open questions about identity, womanhood, and trauma I didn’t know I was carrying. This isn’t just a post about thighs or weight gain. It’s about the weight of becoming someone new.
Buying clothes in recovery isn’t a glow-up montage - it’s a fight with Clippy, grief over leggings you've burst out of, and a quest to not be bottomless in Lidl. But somehow, in navy and Nike Air Max, I’m finding pieces of myself again. Not just clothes - breadcrumbs back to who I used to be.
Twelve years in recovery, and I still wore clothes like camouflage. Now, in relapse recovery, my body changes daily—and suddenly I have to ask: who am I dressing for? Who have I ever been? This time, I’m choosing clothes that fit me, not just physically, but the parts I buried to survive.
Recovery is hard, but Biscoff helps. From ice cream to iced lattes, each bite fights back against my eating disorder, Clippy. These sweet, caramelised moments aren’t just food - they’re acts of rebellion, comfort, and joy. Come join me (and Biscoff the Bear) as I put the scoff in Biscoff.
Absurd Universe 