Visions Journal

Abby McCluskey

Reprinted from the The Ongoing Journey of Recovery: Recovery across the lifespan issue of Visions Journal, 2025, 20 (3), pp. 23-24

Last June, as I walked out of the testing centre where I had just spent eight hours writing the Medical College Admission Test (MCAT), I realized I was fully recovered from my eating disorder (ED).

It had been about two years since I’d last accessed any specialized ED treatment. I had just finished my second year of post-secondary, living in a different province away from home, and thriving. Yet, until that moment, I had hesitated when describing how I was doing to those who knew about my ED history. I would say I was “virtually fully recovered” but was reluctant to drop the modifying adverb that stood between me and the elusive finish line of full recovery. 

The stigma and weight and EDs

Part of my skepticism came from my uncertainty of what recovery meant to me. From 11 to 16, I believed my struggles with an ED weren’t valid because I wasn’t “underweight.” How could I recover if nothing was wrong with me? Of course, EDs are a mental illness, not a physical one—they aren’t defined by physical health. My ED was valid regardless of how my body looked. 

Nevertheless, that stereotype—a manifestation of weight stigma, diet culture and misinformation regarding EDs—shaped my perception of myself, my illness and my recovery. This was reinforced by the emphasis the health care system placed on physical health as a marker of my recovery status. 

When I was admitted to hospital at 16, the medical professionals on my team defined recovery as a normal heart rate, restored weight and physical wellness. At first, I naively clung to this belief. But I quickly learned that ED recovery does not end when someone is medically stable. People told me I’d start to feel better once I was re-fed and my body was physically healthier, but I didn’t. If anything, I felt worse. As I restored my physical health, the emotions that had disappeared when my body shut down came back, including the pain, anxiety, fear and sadness that had fuelled my ED. 

Over my time in ED treatment, I continued to grapple with what recovery meant to me. I felt that my ED wasn’t a real illness unless it was reflected in my weight. This stemmed from the invalidation I faced from medical professionals and the world around me, who minimized my ED based on my healthy weight, only taking things seriously once my physical health changed. 

I say this not to place blame on anyone, but to highlight how stigma and lack of education can affect patient outcomes. From my lived experience, I can tell you with confidence that my ED was just as severe when my weight was considered “healthy” as when it was considered “sick.” 

Reaching the starting line

I compare the time I spent restoring my physical health to the walk from your car to the starting line of the marathon that is ED recovery. You can’t make progress on the marathon until you make it to the starting line—which might be a further trek for some than others. 

No one would say they completed a marathon if they just made it to the start line and left. Making it to the start line is important, and often an accomplishment in itself; yet it’s not the end, more the start of the beginning. The true work of recovery is in challenging ED thoughts, learning other ways to cope and separating oneself from the disorder.

As I began working through the thoughts and feelings underlying my ED, my understanding of recovery changed. I started to believe my therapist when they told me physical health was never an indication of my ED’s severity. This was huge, helping me validate the magnitude of my struggles and fight back against my ED’s desire to prove I was “sick enough” to deserve help. I could finally start to imagine a world where my ED had no role. 

Embracing recovery 

Though ED recovery is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, it has positively changed my life. To me, recovery has meant: sitting in my emotions and experiencing them fully; stepping away from relationships that don’t support me; embracing things I love; being honest with myself and others; acknowledging the hard things I’ve experienced; and learning that two things can be true at the same time. 

Taking a step back to look at who I am and what I value, I’ve found meaning and acceptance in my authentic self. 

As I left the MCAT on that grey June afternoon, I was exhausted and burnt out. I’d poured all of myself into studying for the test. But that moment also proved the ED was no longer part of my life. So much of my ED was rooted in the belief that I wasn’t enough—it would have thrived on my post-MCAT vulnerability. 

Yet here I was, having made it through months of immense stress and uncertainty while studying for an exam that would determine the next few years of my life, without any part of an ED emerging. I didn’t know exactly what I’d do next, but I was me, and I was OK. 

Being recovered from my ED doesn’t mean I’m not still healing from it. I’ve finished the marathon that is recovery, but I still have to walk back to my car, which is a lot further from the finish line than it was from the starting line. If I simply stopped moving after reaching the finish line, I would complete the marathon, but I’d never make it home. 

To anyone facing an ED: movement towards the finish line happens inch by inch. Though you may not always feel like you’re going forward, you are always further along the route that is your own recovery. 
In some ways, my ED will always be part of who I am—not as its own entity, but as part of my story of recovery, a testament to the courage, determination and resilience I now know are central to my authentic self. As I have embraced the whole Abby I am, I know that I’m enough—I always was, and I always will be.