Visions Journal

Gregory Walters

Reprinted from the The Ongoing Journey of Recovery: Recovery across the lifespan issue of Visions Journal, 2025, 20 (3), pp. 25-26

I came upon my eating disorder diagnosis later in life. Not because I was showing new behaviours. Just, until then, my concerns had always been brushed aside when I’d gathered the courage to ask a doctor. “You’re just very fit,” I was told. That was when I was 30, after already having dealt with periods of extreme dieting and overexercising for 13 years. 

I would hear the same thing in the years that followed until I was 53 and admitted to a psych ward. Although I was there due to suicidal ideation and deep depression, my eating behaviours became a major speed bump in my path to recovery. I wouldn’t eat in the dining area with other patients. I wouldn’t eat the vegetarian options prepared by the hospital kitchen. I just wouldn’t eat. 

I experienced rapid weight loss and, this time in the psych ward, caregivers noticed. I began to be seen daily by dietitians. I felt like I was considered difficult, but one dietitian listened to my food concerns and worked with the kitchen to provide accommodations. At the end of my stay, he asked, “Do you want a referral for an eating disorder assessment?” 

Through tears, I nodded. Maybe the problem I imagined was real. 

I cried again when the diagnosis became official: anorexia nervosa. Strangely, they were happy tears…or at least tears of relief. Maybe with professional help, I might shake this thing.

The heavy obligation of self-care 

In truth, that hasn’t happened. My diagnosis came seven years ago and I have since accessed outpatient care as well as hospital and group home programs. The gains are small. Through a self-compassion class, I learned to be less harsh on myself. I learned to place objects that ground me in places where I notice them each day. I’ve also learned that my constant need to negotiate attempts to eat more and exercise less doesn’t have to become a battle with caregivers. I can smile, listen and hold my ground when I’m not ready for next steps. While there are people by my side, the journey is mine.

Prior to hospital admission to an eating disorder program, I had come to hate exercise. Though I tried to switch up the activities, I still had extreme expectations over how long each workout needed to last and how intensely I needed to go at each activity. It was all obligation and no fun.

New openings to joy

I haven’t changed my expectations about exercise, but I’ve rediscovered some of the fun that comes with my hiking, biking, jogging and swimming. (As for the gym? Not so much.) Exercise becomes a total joy—no chore component at all—when I make a quick road trip to Whistler. My shoulders relax as soon as I view the islands dotting Howe Sound and the mountains in the background. When I take to the trails around Whistler, I appreciate the beauty. I am glad to be immersed in nature. I’m in the present, practising a form of mindfulness I cannot achieve in a group, surrounded by four walls, following a guided exercise led by a well-meaning professional.

Whistler is simply magical.

I find relief from my rigid food restriction when I travel to another place. It’s an odd destination for finally allowing myself food treats. Not Paris, known for baguettes and French pastries. Not New York City with its diverse cuisines. Not even Vancouver and its popular farmers markets full of seasonal produce. I have found my food haven on road trips to Oregon. I don’t mean to knock the state, but I’m probably the only person who considers it the food capital of the world.

It starts in Portland. Stumptown Coffee is where I had my first pour-over. It’s where I later had my first cold brew. Sure, I can access the brand in Vancouver, but an oat milk latte in Stumptown’s hometown somehow tastes better. 

I go to Salt & Straw every time I’m in Portland as well. It serves the best ice cream I have ever had. I indulge here because the five hours I invested in the drive makes it easy for me to say it’s a special occasion. Two scoops, zero guilt. My eating disorder goes quiet.

Portland is also on my culinary map for donuts. The lines are at Voodoo, where some of the top choices involve bright colours and heaped-on toppings such as cookie bits, cereal and sprinkles. My clear preference, however, is Blue Star, where the glazes enliven my tastebuds. Just the thought of the cake donuts led to a major detour one time while visiting Seattle.

On the Oregon Coast, I find pleasure on par with Whistler while jogging windswept beaches and cycling curvy roads. And I know where to make my coffee stops. Traffic moves slowly as I take the coastal highway to Newport. The route lets me stop at Tillamook Dairy. I discovered the place by accident, seeing a massive parking lot and watching families spill out of SUVs. Was this the Oregonian version of Disneyland? Naturally, I had to pull into the lot and search for a spot. 

The biggest appeal seems to be the ice cream. Huge lines, huge portions. But I stock up on a treat from childhood instead: cheese curds. My version of a delicacy will never match up with whoever gives out Michelin stars. I’m perfectly OK with that.

Getaways ahead

For others seeking relief or even joy, I recommend beginning with an ongoing list of simple sources of happiness. Stick it to the fridge. Include a few things that don’t need you to engage with others. Then, allow one such happy moment a week or, better yet, each day. Lean in to self-care.

I remain a work in progress, but the point is I’m willing to work towards recovery. I haven’t given up on myself, nor have I given up on the supports. I’m waiting for the next thing to click, the next piece of learning to sink in. In the meantime, I look forward to another getaway. Until then, let there be opportunities to find joy—and relief—closer to home, perhaps even in my own neighbourhood.