The Scientist and the Storyteller

The Scientist and the Storyteller

Why this relationship matters

There are many kinds of relationships that steady a life: family, friends, cherished companions (including the furry ones). Then there are the few who become anchors for the work we feel called to do. For almost two decades, Professor Daniel Le Grange has been one of mine. He is a scientist; I am a person with lived experience who found her voice through story. Together, we learned how science and story can meet in service of families—and how that partnership can ripple outward to raise awareness everywhere.
This is the story of how we met, what we made together, and how I’m learning to keep going as Prof. Le Grange prepares to retire.

Chicago, 2008: a corridor, a door, a beginning

In 2007, while researching my memoir, A Girl Called Tim, I discovered Family-Based Treatment (FBT). The approach felt like an answer I’d been yearning for since childhood: a way to keep families at the table when anorexia tries to pull them apart. Tentatively, I wrote to Prof. Le Grange, then at the University of Chicago, and asked to meet.
I still see it: the long corridor to his consulting rooms, shaking hands at the door where we met. He listened—truly listened—to me, a woman from rural Australia who had lived with anorexia since age 11, who had spent years rebuilding a healthy self, and who wanted to gather family stories so other children might be spared decades of suffering. Prof. Le Grange believed in me. That belief allowed me to “come out” as a storyteller with purpose.

What we built together: My Kid Is Back

Prof. Le Grange brought the science—clear, careful, evidence-based guidance. I brought the stories—parents, grandparents, siblings, and brave young people letting us into their kitchens, clinics, and hearts. Together, we shaped those materials into My Kid Is Back – Empowering Parents to Beat Anorexia Nervosa (first published in 2009/2010). The book’s power was its pairing: method explained simply, lived experience woven through every chapter, and a practical focus on what FBT looks like at home.
Again and again, parents told us the same thing: “I’ve got my kid back.” Not overnight—not easily—but with structure, love, and a team approach that centred parents as their child’s strongest allies. The idea was never to simplify a complex illness; it was to make proven treatment understandable and doable for ordinary families under extraordinary stress.

The dance between science and story

From the start, Prof. Le Grange and I named our differences and used them as a strength. He often reminded me, “I’m a scientist.” In his work, accuracy, method, and outcome matter. In mine, meaning, memory, empathy and voice matter. Both are essential. Science tests what helps; story shows how help happens. Science sets out the map; story walks the road.
Our division of labour was simple:
Prof. Le Grange translated research into plain language and clarified what FBT is—and isn’t.
I interviewed families, organised their narratives, and safeguarded the emotional texture that helps readers recognise themselves.
That combination—method plus memoir—has become my life’s pattern. The belief from Prof. Le Grange, the scientist, gave me, the storyteller, the courage to interview, write, edit, and keep going. In turn, the storyteller helped carry the scientist’s work into living rooms and GP clinics, school offices and therapy rooms, across countries and cultures.

A second edition for a new generation

Time moves. A whole cohort of children has been born since the first edition. In 2023, families, clinicians, and parent-coaches asked us for an update—more stories, revised guidance, and acknowledgment that FBT, while the gold standard for medically and psychiatrically suitable young people, isn’t a fit in every case. We listened. We collaborated anew; we set to work.
My Kid Is Back, Second Edition, released in 2025, gathered fresh voices from Australia, the United States, the United Kingdom, and New Zealand. The families’ message is consistent: early intervention matters, unity matters, and practical, compassionate coaching helps parents hold steady when an illness targets a young person’s developing sense of self. Prof. Le Grange clarifies what has strengthened in the evidence, where questions remain, and how teams can work better with families. I hold space for the nuance—hopeful, not glossy; honest about setbacks; deeply respectful of the effort it takes to keep showing up.

The email from Berlin: news that lands in the heart

Recently, while travelling in Japan, an email from Berlin arrived. Prof. Le Grange wrote to say he will retire from the eating-disorder field on 1 January 2026. He wants time with his partner, time to travel to places not tethered to work. As I read, I felt something inside me go still. One of my anchors was moving to a new harbour. I was, for a moment, bereft.
Then I noticed the second message inside his note—the same steady mentorship he gave me in Chicago: an invitation. Perhaps his retirement could inspire me, too. Perhaps it was my turn to let more life in.

What happens when the scientist retires?

If you’ve lived with anorexia since childhood, the field can feel like more than a profession; it can feel like a vital thread in your identity. So Prof. Le Grange’s news raised a brave question for me: can the person with lived experience “close the door” a little and step into other rooms of life?
Here is my answer, shaped by Prof. Le Grange’s example:
The show must go on—but the cast can change. The work matters beyond any one individual. The baton is always passing, and our task is to pass it cleanly.
Retiring from a role is not the same as retiring from caring. Prof. Le Grange’s influence lives in the families he’s helped, the clinicians he’s trained, the research he’s seeded, and, yes, in collaborators like me.
Permission to choose joy is part of recovery. Prof. Le Grange is choosing travel and time with his partner; I can choose more spontaneity with mine, more days that are whole for their own sake—not because they produce a page or a project.

Gratitude, in two directions

In my reply to Prof. Le Grange, I told him that meeting him in Chicago was one of the most significant moments of my life. His belief catalysed more than 10 books, including several that he co-authored. He answered with a kindness that I treasure: that my story—and the way I’ve shared it—has inspired him, too. That mutuality is the quiet heart of our collaboration.

We gave each other courage in different languages: he in the language of data and design; I in the language of diary and narrative.

Lessons I’m keeping

Science and story travel farther together. Evidence without translation doesn’t reach the kitchen table; narrative without grounding can drift. When we braid them, families find footing.
* Parents are powerful. With the right support, most parents can lead re-nourishment and help their child hold the line when the illness shouts the loudest.
* Early is easier. The sooner families access effective treatment, the more quickly a young person can return to the business of being themselves.
* Honesty helps. FBT is the best-tested approach for many children and adolescents—and it is not magic. Naming limits builds trust.
* Pass it on. Every story told—success, setback, and everything between—adds light for the next family walking in.

Where I’m headed now

Prof Le Grange’s decision is helping me to name my own ‘next stage’. From the end of this year, I’ll be stepping back from parts of my work in the eating disorder field to make more space for life beyond it. Not abandoning the cause—just loosening my grip so I can hold other things, too: long walks with Graham, unscheduled afternoons, writing that isn’t always about illness and recovery.
This is not a farewell. It’s a rebalancing born of gratitude. My diaries now rest in the National Library of Australia; my younger self feels seen. And my older self wants to model what we tell families: that recovery is for reclaiming life, not for narrowing it.

A word to families and clinicians

To parents: if you recognise concerning changes in your child—withdrawal, rigidity, rapid weight loss, food rules—seek help promptly. Ask directly about FBT. Be persistent. Your steadiness matters more than you can know.
To clinicians: families aren’t obstacles; they’re your best allies. Unite your team’s message. Offer clear, compassionate coaching. Invite the story into the room—listen to the parents and your patient; you’ll learn what your measures can’t show on their own.

A word to my colleagues in lived experience

Your voice is valuable because it brings texture to truth. Pair it with good science. Be transparent about limits. Share the messy middle as well as the hopeful end. And when it’s time to rest, rest. The work will still be here—and so will the next generation, ready to carry it.

Thank you, Prof. Le Grange

Thank you for opening the door in Chicago, for trusting a storyteller to walk beside a scientist, and for showing me that wonderful things happen where evidence and empathy meet. Enjoy every mile of the road ahead with your partner. I’ll be cheering you on—and, in my own way, following suit.

Closing

In 1062, when I was 11 years old and holding a candle to go to bed in a farmhouse without electricity, I was a girl in whom anorexia nervosa had developed. Nobody understood me or my illness, and nobody knew how to help. I could not have imagined this life today.
I could not have imagined that one day a scientist on the other side of the world would help me believe in the power of my voice, and that together we would help families keep their children safe. That is the gift I carry forward: belief—first given to me, now given by me. The show goes on. And so do we.