My relationship with food, movement and my body began as a quiet struggle. In a society that places a disproportionate value on appearance and body commentary, my disordered eating was disguised as discipline and self-care until it slowly became an eating disorder that promised safety and control.

In the depths of it, I couldn’t imagine recovery; letting go of my eating disorder wasn’t just about changing behaviours, it meant giving up something that had become deeply intertwined with my identity. In many ways, it felt like a constant, a place I knew well, even if it caused harm. It gave me rules, focus, and a false sense of control. For a long time, I couldn’t imagine who I was without it.

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Recovery asked me to step into something far more uncertain. It meant choosing discomfort over the familiar, softness over rigidity, and trust over control. And that was terrifying. Not because I didn’t want to get better – but because I didn’t yet know who I would be on the other side.

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But with time, and support, I learned that uncertainty is not the enemy — it’s the space where real life begins to take shape — the place where connection, joy, creativity, and meaning truly live. Choosing recovery didn’t mean I suddenly knew where I was going, it meant I was willing to find out. And in doing so, I began to rediscover hidden aspects of my personality.

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Recovery wasn’t straightforward. I often found myself caught between wanting freedom and clinging to the familiarity of old patterns. One of the hardest truths I had to face was that full recovery couldn’t happen while I still held onto parts of the disorder. Most importantly, I learned that the space once occupied by an eating disorder can be reclaimed by connection, meaningful experiences, and the freedom to pursue passions beyond its constraints.

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Choosing recovery taught me that I had taken the body that was meant to be a gift and treated it as a project; an ever-changing, unstable measurement of my goodness and worth. I relentlessly exhausted and examined my body, forgetting that it is a vehicle to experience this one wild and precious life.

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Recovery was a process that I struggled with, ran from, circled back to and made peace with — a process I know for certain. Now, as a therapist, I’m honoured to walk alongside clients, guiding them as they reclaim their own paths toward healing and self-trust.

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Russ Harris (2022) uses a powerful metaphor to describe this shared journey: the two mountains. Each of us climbs our own unique mountain, navigating rocky trails, muddy slopes, and deep ditches, but also pausing to take in breathtaking views, blooming wildflowers, and the fruits of our growth. No two paths are the same, but we all face moments of hardship and beauty, each in our own time and in our own way.

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I’ve been climbing my mountain since the beginning of my life, just as you’ve been climbing yours. Along the way, we encounter challenges that shape us and moments of meaning and joy that move us forward. For me, part of that mountain has involved recovery from an eating disorder. Through it, I’ve learned that healing isn’t just about overcoming pain; it’s about finding peace and meaning within the journey itself.

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I honour the path you’re on — where you’ve started, the struggles you’ve faced, and the meaning you’ve uncovered. If you're feeling lost, stuck, or uncertain about your next step, I see you. While I may not know your exact terrain, I know the experience of doubt, fear, and not knowing the way forward.

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Here’s how I can help: I’ve got my binoculars on and from where I stand, I can see your mountain — not all of it, but enough to notice how far you’ve already come. I can walk beside you through difficult terrain, offering tools, perspectives, and encouragement to help navigate new or familiar obstacles. Together, we’ll explore the direction you’re headed and whether it aligns with what truly matters to you.