When feeling the freedom replaces feeling the fear

When feeling the freedom replaces feeling the fear

For almost 20 years, I have been writing about eating disorders, recovery, and self-discovery. I have drawn on my experience and the voices of many others who have travelled the same path. This week, I’m writing about something different.

At 74, I am preparing for something that feels as new and exciting as when I regained 51 per cent of my healthy self from anorexia in 2006. Tomorrow, I will travel to Japan with my partner–for a holiday.

This might not sound unusual. But for me, it is extraordinary.

Every previous trip overseas since 2006 had a professional anchor: to attend an eating disorder conference, to speak at a carers’ forum, or to research for one of my books. Never—not once—have I packed my bags and boarded a plane simply for the joy of going on holiday. This trip will be the first. My first international holiday as authentic June.

Recovery is ongoing

For 44 years, anorexia dominated my everyday life. It robbed me of joy, clouded my relationships, and hijacked my sense of self. Rebuilding of true self has been a long, gradual process, one step at a time. It remains ongoing.

Some people believe “recovery” means a total absence of the illness, but this is not my experience. Over the years, before I could access help, anorexia entrenched itself in my brain; my anorexia is part of me and always will be. The crucial difference is that today, its voice occupies no more than five per cent of my inner world. My healthy, authentic self has the dominant voice, and this makes all the difference.

A small but telling story illustrates this. Recently, my partner was preparing our breakfast. He carefully filled our bowls with muesli, prunes, dates, sultanas, walnuts, sliced banana, and chopped kiwi fruit. Then he added a generous dollop of yoghurt and drizzled honey over the lot.

When he reached my bowl, I blurted, “No honey for me, thank you.”

I ate my breakfast, but later, alone with my thoughts, I realised what had happened. My anorexia voice—subtle, sneaky, and quick—had intervened to deny me the honey. It had slipped through, uninvited.

That evening, I explained this to my partner. “You can help me,” I said. “When I asked you not to add honey, it wasn’t me speaking. It was anorexia. I do like honey. From now on, please add it to my bowl just as you do to yours. In this way, you will be helping me silence that voice.”

The next morning, I watched as he drizzled honey across my breakfast. I ate it, feeling cared for and feeling I was caring for myself. A small victory, perhaps, but victories like this are the building blocks of authentic living.

Trusting another

Another way I have learned to quieten the remnants of anorexia’s voice is to surrender choice in moments that can feel challenging. When dining in a restaurant or sharing coffee and cake in a café, I sometimes invite my partner to order for both of us. Whatever he chooses, I eat. This trust in another person is both freeing and healing. It reduces the opportunity for anorexia’s whispers to interrupt, and it strengthens the bond between us.

The guilt that for decades would inevitably plague and berate me upon eating a treat or something different has been forever vanquished.

Recovery is not simply about food, of course. It extends into relationships. For decades, my eating disorder wreaked havoc in that sphere too. My illness would gravitate toward people whose traits mirrored its own—charismatic, controlling, or unreliable. At first, such relationships seemed exciting, but, like anorexia itself, they quickly revealed darker sides: coercion, domination, betrayal.

When I did meet people who embodied the qualities my healthy self longed for—kindness, care, compassion—I often felt unable to accept their love. Their care was unfamiliar and overwhelming. My illness would push them away, whispering that I was undeserving or unsafe in such closeness.

To be here now, in a relationship where I feel secure, cared for, and accepted as I am, is truly remarkable. I can fully embrace the trust, safety and steadiness that my partner brings to our relationship. Together, we laugh, plan, and share meals. Together, we are planning our trip to Japan.

Rediscovering simple pleasures

Another marker of authentic living is rediscovering foods and traditions once locked away by anorexia’s rules. Over the weekend, I baked a bread-and-butter pudding. This simple, homely dessert (made with full-cream milk, buttered bread, eggs, sultanas, sugar and a sprinkle of nutmeg) was a staple of both my partner’s and my childhood, a dish our mothers often made.

For decades, I had not allowed myself to enjoy this nostalgic treat. But this weekend, I did. We shared the pudding, warm from the oven, and it was delicious. That small act was filled with meaning. It was not just about dessert; it was about reclaiming joy and memory, about being fully present in my authentic self.

The journey continues

For decades, I could not have imagined sitting here, looking forward to a holiday chosen not for work or an ‘injection’ of wellness always received at an eating disorder conference, but for pleasure.

Anorexia’s voice may still attempt to nudge its way in at times, as it did with the honey on my breakfast. However, I now have the tools, support, and insight to respond differently. I can notice, name, and counteract that voice. Most importantly, I can invite others into the process, allowing love and companionship to play their role in silencing it.

To reach this point—to be able to look forward to a trip abroad as authentic June, not as June driven by illness, need or obligation—is profoundly life-affirming.

Life is beautiful

When I board the plane with my partner, I will feel a mix of excitement, gratitude, and deep curiosity. Curiosity about what it means to live fully, to explore the world not as someone weighed down by illness, but as someone whose authentic self leads the way.

Life, even with its scars and remnants, is beautiful. Recovery is not about perfection or erasure; it is about progress, presence, and growth. At 74, I continue to discover what this means.

You deserve the whole cherry of life. Hug this truth. Hold on to hope and never give up.