I was six the first time someone told me to lose weight. By eight, I had learned to suck in my stomach. At 15, I started starving myself. Growing up, I thought success meant being able to control and reshape your body—and mine was seen as a problem. A grandparent would comment on what I was eating. A friend’s mom told me how pretty I’d be if I lost a little weight. When my mom searched the women’s section for clothes that would fit my nine-year-old body, I shrank under the disapproving stares of strangers. I pushed myself to be perfect, getting upset if I got anything less than an A on a test, always trying to be seen not just as good, but flawless. The one thing I couldn’t seem to control was my body.

That feeling stayed with me for years, until, deep in the awkwardness of high school, I decided I was finally ready to fight back. It was 2017, Instagram was at its peak, and beauty meant overlined lips and BBLs on white women pretending to be Black. At my arts high school in Oakland, the style was weirder and more eclectic, but the girls who got the most admiration were still thin with curves—often ethnically ambiguous. It reminded us that even in one of the most progressive and rebellious cities in the country, beauty standards were just as narrow as what we saw on our phone screens.

Most of us, including me, didn’t naturally have that “ideal” body. As a mixed Black girl, I got plenty of compliments for my green eyes, but the parts of me that were unmistakably Black—especially the size and shape of my body—were judged harshly. My body wasn’t the trend. It was the thing the trend had squeezed, commodified, and whitewashed.

I wanted to be smooth, perfect, untouchable. And to get there, I believed I had to be skinny. I went on a diet and ran miles after school. At home, I carefully measured my shrinking waist. I ate two meals a day, then just one, then only eggs for a week, then only apples. My hair started thinning and falling out until my hairstylist refused to cut or color it, afraid it would fall apart in her hands.

But my body had become something people wanted. I was catcalled, harassed, or groped on my way home from the movies or school. I now fit the 2010s ideal: flat stomach, wide hips—small enough to wrap your arms around, but with enough curve to grab. I didn’t look alarming, like the images I’d seen of white anorexic women. Like many Black women with eating disorders, my muscles held on to my bones, my thighs stayed strong, even as the weight dropped from my stomach and breasts. My body, built for survival, fought to keep me alive.

Later, when I was diagnosed with anorexia, there was always a catch: atypical. Basically, I wasn’t underweight—I was just starving. I lost half my body weight between ages 15 and 17. Sometimes I picture splitting myself in half and holding one side next to the other: that’s how much I shrank myself in the pursuit of a body I thought would let me belong.

I wanted to be smooth, perfect, untouchable. And to get there, I believed I had to be skinny.

During those years, I desperately wanted someone to show real concern. Instead, people were warmer to me. I graduated high school and went to college, where I made friends easily and started dating my now wife, who never knew what my body had been like before I fought it into shape. I felt like my body was no longer getting in the way of my life. At the same time, I was miserable and alone. No one seemed to see a problem with the body that was tormenting me.

My eating disorder left me with a body that couldn’t keep itself warm, blood pressure so low I saw white every time I stood up, and organs that were slowly shutting down. One day, after two weeks of eating nothing but Granny Smith apples from the dining hall, I found I couldn’t see.My vision went blurry behind my glasses, and I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, the sound distorted and wrong. Terrified, I went to urgent care alone. The doctor called my therapist, who then called my parents, because I had crossed the line of confidentiality: I was a danger to myself.

My parents let me stay in college, but only if I joined an intensive outpatient program. For months, I took an hour-long bus ride at six in the morning to eat breakfast with strangers and attend group therapy, then rode back for a full day of classes. In that program, I met women who had been fighting their bodies for so long that they, too, had forgotten what they were fighting for. It certainly couldn’t be this: hearts pounding in our ears, vision blurring, fingers thin and cold to the touch.

In my late teens, I taught myself how to let go of control. There were tearful meals where I mumbled behavioral therapy phrases that felt silly, like “food is not my enemy,” between bites. I set alarms for mealtimes. I faced my “fear foods.” The day I ate pasta for the first time in three years, I lay in bed afterward, convincing myself I didn’t have to make up for it with exercise. Months later, I looked up from a bowl of spaghetti, surprised that I hadn’t spent the previous hour panicking.

I’m lucky to have lived in enough versions of my body to know that power and beauty don’t come from strict control over it. By the time I turned 20 and my first novel was published, I had gained back the weight I’d been praised for losing. Two years later, I did nothing special to fit into my wedding dress. My heart beats softly behind my ribs, and I take comfort in knowing that I’m not perfect, but I am loved and successful and, finally, at peace.

Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs based on the topic I starved myself in the name of perfection

BeginnerLevel Questions

1 What does starving myself for perfection actually mean
It means deliberately skipping meals eating very little or restricting food groups because you believe that being thinner more controlled or pure will make you a better or more acceptable person

2 Why do people start doing this
Often it starts with a desire to feel in control to meet an unrealistic standard or to cope with feelings of anxiety low selfworth or shame

3 Is this just a diet or something more serious
Its much more serious than a healthy diet A diet is about nourishing your body this is about punishing it Its a sign of disordered eating or an eating disorder not a lifestyle choice

4 What are the first signs that Ive gone too far
Common signs include constant tiredness feeling cold all the time losing your hair getting dizzy obsessing over calories feeling guilty after eating and avoiding social events that involve food

Advanced ProblemSolving Questions

5 I thought I was being disciplined and healthy How do I tell the difference
Discipline feels sustainable and flexibleyou can have a treat and move on Starving for perfection feels rigid punishing and fearbased If missing a workout or eating a cookie leads to shame selfhatred or a plan to make up for it its not healthy discipline

6 What if Im scared that if I stop starving myself Ill lose control and binge
This is a very common fear Its called the starvationbinge cycle Your body is biologically wired to fight starvation When you restrict your brain screams for food The solution is to eat regularly and adequately first which actually calms the urge to binge A dietitian can help you build a safe meal plan

7 How do I start eating normally again without feeling like a failure
Start small Dont try to fix everything overnight Pick one meal to eat consistently Eat it without judgment Work with a therapist or registered