Emerging whole: a life reclaimed

Emerging whole: a life reclaimed

There was a time when I didn’t know who I was. Not really. Not in the way that lets you walk into a room, make a choice, or even sit with your own thoughts and trust that they’re truly yours. Anorexia nervosa took hold of me when I was 11 years old, and from that moment, it was as though a stranger took up residence in my brain—a voice that was not my own, yet louder and more insistent than anything else. It would be decades before I would be able to separate myself from that voice, decades before I could clearly say, “This is me. This is the real June.”
Now, at last, I live in that clarity. I live in peace.
This blog post is a reflection on the long and winding path that led me here. It’s a letter to the girl I was, and to anyone else who feels lost in illness, unsure whether they’ll ever find their way back to their true self. Because I want you to know that healing is possible. Not just partial, survival-level healing—but the kind of healing that allows you to thrive, to be content, to be whole.

A battle for the Self

Anorexia is more than an eating disorder. It’s an identity thief. In my case, it clouded my ability to think, feel, or relate to others without its interference. I often didn’t know if the thoughts in my head were coming from my authentic self, the illness, or the effects of medication. Writing was the one space where I felt most secure. My diaries became a lifeline—a way to anchor myself when I was drifting in a sea of confusion. Yet even there, I sometimes questioned: Who is doing the writing? Who is doing the feeling?
Years passed in this haze. I went through the motions of life, but always with a sense that I was watching from behind a veil. There were moments of hope, of course, and stretches of time when I functioned well. But the question of identity—who am I beneath this illness?—remained elusive.

The ripple effect

Anorexia didn’t just affect me. It had a ripple effect on everyone around me. My family, especially, bore the brunt of it. Misunderstandings, fractured relationships, and emotional distance became part of the landscape. Sometimes the illness spoke louder than love. Sometimes it drowned out the connection. These are wounds that take time to heal.
And yet, healing is possible. While some losses cannot be recovered, it’s never too late when both parties are willing to try. In recent years, I’ve experienced moments of deep repair with family members. There’s something sacred about two people sitting together and choosing to rebuild, to speak truths that were once too painful or too confusing to voice. These moments remind me that even the most broken bonds can be mended, with compassion, time, and mutual willingness. [See my memoir A Girl Called Tim].

Becoming the navigator

For a long time, I didn’t feel like the driver of my life. I was being pulled along by illness, by circumstance, by survival. But in my fifties, something shifted. It was slow at first—a sense that I was beginning to feel more “me” than “not me.” I often speak of this time as reaching 51 per cent of my healthy self. That small majority was enough to change everything. It was enough to tip the balance.
From there, my recovery gained momentum. I began writing and publishing. I began mentoring others. I built a life that reflected my values and strengths. The anorexia voice, once so dominant, retreated to the distant back blocks of my brain. It no longer holds sway. It no longer defines me.
Today, I am the navigator of my life. I know who I am. I live without depression. I’ve developed tools to manage anxiety. I feel joy. I feel love. I feel peace. And I feel content—not in a passive way, but in the richest, most satisfying sense of the word.

A new layer revealed

In 2025, a new piece of my puzzle emerged. Nightmares from my childhood began to increase in intensity and frequency. It was as though my mind, now safe enough to process, was inviting me to examine deeper wounds. With the support of a skilled therapist, I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). More specifically, my therapist explained that if not for my lifelong habit of diary writing, I would likely meet the criteria for Complex PTSD.
This was a profound realisation. Those diaries—written in pain, confusion, and desperation—had done more than preserve my story.

The diaries I had written since childhood had preserved my self.

My daughter asked a question that many might wonder: Why has the PTSD only emerged now? The answer lies in the layered nature of trauma and healing. My therapist believes that the PTSD could only come to the surface after the anorexia, depression, and anxiety had been sufficiently addressed. Only now was I safe enough, stable enough, to begin this new layer of work.
And while it’s not easy, I welcome it. Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy is helping me process those early traumas. It’s not about going backward, but about continuing forward—with more freedom, more insight, and more peace.

Loving life

I often marvel at how good life feels now. I don’t take a single day for granted. I’m surrounded by a loving partner, a beautiful family, meaningful work, and friendships rooted in truth. I wake up excited for the day ahead. I feel grounded in who I am.
And I want to say this clearly: it is never too late. Never too late to heal. Never too late to grow. Never too late to recover your sense of self and rebuild what was lost. Never too late to embrace life in all its fullness.
I hope this post reaches someone who needs to hear that.
If that’s you—hold on. You are not broken beyond repair. You are becoming. And every step forward counts.
With love,
June