A blog by Pepeote.

It’s that time of year again…

The lights are coming out, the calendars are filling up, and everywhere you look there’s food, celebration, and expectations. For most people, Christmas feels cosy, exciting, nostalgic, and people actually look forward to all the food they are going to eat over this season. But if you’re someone who has struggled, or is still struggling, with an eating disorder, this season comes with a very different kind of pressure.

Suddenly, the world feels louder. Meals become centre stage. Comments about food, weight, bodies, and “festive indulgence” slip into almost every conversation. Almond mums come out. Old anxieties resurface. Routines get disrupted. And the holiday that’s meant to feel warm and magical can instead feel like something you need to survive, not enjoy.

This time of year is complicated. It brings joy and pain in the same breath. It can trigger memories, fears, guilt, or old habits you thought you’d left behind. And it can feel isolating, like everyone else is moving through the season effortlessly while you’re quietly fighting a battle no one sees.

This post isn’t about making Christmas perfect. It’s about acknowledging the reality so many of us face, validating the heaviness, and giving you space to feel understood, not judged. Because if the holidays feel hard for you, you’re not failing. You’re human. And you’re not alone in this. And if you’re someone who knows of a loved one who is struggling with an eating disorder (or even disordered eating), this post will be a good one for you to read too.

This year is my fourth Christmas in recovery, which feels surreal to write down. Four years of rebuilding. Four years of navigating December with a completely different relationship to myself, my body, and the rituals I once feared.

And here’s the truth: things are looking up this year. There’s a calmness in me now that wasn’t there during my earlier Christmases in recovery. Back then, everything about the holiday season felt like a test I hadn’t studied for. And for an academic over-achiever, that felt like I was “failing” at something all over again each year. December used to be a countdown to discomfort: advent calendars, festive food adverts, parties, the chaotic supermarket aisles with people piling their trolleys high. It all made my chest tighten.

But this year, it’s different. I can enjoy the small things again. Buying presents. Decorating the tree. Listening to music while I wrap gifts. I can actually sit by the fire and just be without constantly calculating something in my head. Four years ago, that would’ve been unimaginable. That’s something I don’t give myself enough credit for.

Still, despite all that progress, the closer we get to Christmas Day, the louder the old fears become. And I wish I could say it’s purely irrational – that I know better now, that I’m stronger now – but recovery doesn’t delete everything you’ve been through. It doesn’t wipe away years of conditioning and protect you from triggers that are embedded into the holiday itself.

Christmas Day is overwhelming in ways people don’t always understand. It’s a day built around food, and not just any food. Rich food, traditional food, food you don’t normally eat, food with no labels, food prepared by other people, food you can’t mentally “track” even if you wanted to. It’s drinks before noon, chocolates being passed around, dessert after dessert. It’s spontaneity. And that kind of spontaneity has always been hard for someone like me.

Then, there’s the family part. And I say this with love: some people try their best. Others… not so much. Not because they’re cruel, but because diet culture raised them, too. Because they don’t understand eating disorders beyond what they’ve seen on TV. Because they don’t know what words land like weapons and what words feel harmless to them but heavy to me.

And if you’re in recovery, you’ll know exactly the kind of comments I mean:

“Go on, it’s Christmas — treat yourself!”
“You look so good now!”
“Are you sure that’s all you’re having?”
“You’re eating well this year, aren’t you?”
“You used to love this, what’s happened?”
“Have some more, you barely ate earlier.”

That last one is the one that always hits me the hardest. Because when you’ve spent years battling your own mind, someone implying you’re “not eating enough” feels like a spotlight you never asked for. There’s this pressure to perform, to eat “normally” enough so you don’t worry anyone, but not so much that they comment on that instead. It’s like you can’t win.

If I’m honest with myself, part of my dread doesn’t come from the food or the comments but from expectation. I think I’m almost conditioned to brace for impact. For so many years, Christmas meant tears in the bathroom, shaky hands during dinner, hiding in my room to re-centre myself, or pretending I had a headache so I could skip supper, when really I was upstairs doing a workout. Even before the day arrived, I’d worry about it so intensely that the anticipation alone exhausted me.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s become habitual. Maybe I’m waiting for things to fall apart because that’s what I’m used to. It’s the pattern my body remembers. The history my brain clings to.

But this year, I’m trying to challenge that narrative.

I’m learning to tell myself: What happened before doesn’t dictate what happens now.

It’s uncomfortable. It’s unfamiliar. But isn’t that what recovery is, at its core? Doing the thing that scares you because you’ve outgrown what hurt you.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want Christmas to look like this year, not what I expect, not what I fear, but what I genuinely hope for. And it looks like this:

• A day where I give myself permission to step away when I need to, without guilt.
• A day where I don’t obsess over what’s on my plate or what someone else thinks I should be eating.
• A day where I remind myself that recovery doesn’t take a holiday and that’s okay.
• A day where food is just food, not a test, not a threat, not a moral measure.
• A day where I’m present enough to notice the good moments rather than scanning for the bad ones.
• A day where I don’t shame myself for struggling and don’t rush myself to be “fine.”
• A day where I allow myself joy in whatever form it comes.

I’m not aiming for a perfect Christmas. I’m aiming for an honest one.

And honestly? There’s something freeing about admitting that Christmas is hard for me. Not because I’m failing at recovery, but because recovery is nuanced. The world doesn’t pause its pressures just because you’re healing. Holidays don’t magically become easy because you’re “far enough along.” But they can become softer. More manageable. Less engulfing.

This is my fourth Christmas in recovery, and I’m walking into it with more tools than terror. More grounding than dread. More hope than fear, even if the fear still whispers sometimes.

Maybe I won’t break down this year. Maybe I will. Either way, it doesn’t define me. It doesn’t erase my progress or make me weak. It just makes me human.

And if you’re reading this and feeling the same, please know that you’re not alone. Christmas is complicated for people in recovery. You’re allowed to find it hard. You’re allowed to protect yourself. You’re allowed to experience the day in a way that feels safe and kind to you.

Here’s to a Christmas that isn’t perfect, but peaceful.
A Christmas that doesn’t overwhelm us, but meets us where we are.
A Christmas that reminds us: healing isn’t linear, but it is possible.

And this year, that’s enough for me.

Xo Pepetoe