There’s something seriously terrifying about waking up one day and realising you don’t know who you are without your eating disorder.

For so long, anorexia was the structure I clung to. It dictated my days, shaped my personality, gave me a sense of purpose, even if that purpose was destroying me. And when I began recovery, I wasn’t just unravelling a set of behaviours. I was unravelling an entire identity I had built around restriction, control, and achievement.

I used to say I was a perfectionist. A hard worker. A high-achiever. And I still am, but recovery forced me to question where that drive was coming from. Was I ambitious, or was I just afraid of being “not enough” unless I was always doing more? Did I love not being able to think about anything but food or exercise, and not have to stress about anything else? Did I love routines and discipline, or did I love the numbness they gave me from the chaos in my head?

Stripping that all back – learning to sit with myself, not the version controlled by rules or rituals – was brutal. It still is, sometimes.

Because what’s left when the disorder is gone?

That question haunted me. Without the calorie counts, the compulsive exercise, the obsessive thoughts, who was I? Who was I when I wasn’t “the girl who’s so in control”? The truth is, I didn’t know.

And if I’m being honest… I still don’t.
Because even now, it’s hard to fully detach myself from my ED.
Part of me still believes I have to be “the girl with anorexia.” That’s who I believe people see me as: the fragile one, the one who’s struggling, the one who needs help. I’ve built up this expectation and labelled myself so tightly that weight gain, eating freely, or moving on from this feels like letting go of who I am.

It’s not just about fear of the food. It’s the fear of not being “enough” without the struggle.

If I’m not the one falling apart, will people still care?
If I’m no longer visibly unwell, will they still believe I was ever sick?
If I let go of her, the sick, disciplined, spiralling version of me, who am I even left with?

That’s the hardest part of recovery no one talks about. Not the weight gain. Not the meal plans. But grieving the identity you spent years holding onto – even if it hurt you.

But slowly, I’m learning.

I’m learning that I like writing, not because it’s productive, but because it helps me process what I feel.
I’m learning that I enjoy rest. Actual rest. The messy, unstructured kind that used to scare me.
I’m learning that I can take up space. Be soft. Be complicated. Be changing.
I’m learning that healing isn’t about getting my old self back. It’s about becoming someone I never gave myself the chance to be.

Reclaiming your identity after an ED doesn’t happen in one big moment. It’s quiet. Ongoing. It looks like dancing in your kitchen again. Saying no to plans when you’re tired. Crying for no reason and letting it be okay. Wearing clothes that actually fit your now-body. Eating lunch even though it’s “early.” Laughing. Feeling. Living.

It’s a weird kind of grief, losing the old you. But it’s also freedom.

And if you’re in that place too, in the in-between of “who I was” and “who I’m becoming”, I hope you know that’s valid. That’s brave. That’s healing.

You are not your ED. You never were. You’re something much, much bigger.

– xo Pepetoe