The Start of Dysfunctional Thinking and Behaviour (Mindfulness+ED Part Part. 1)
To begin this series, I have to go way back. I was probably 14 or 15 when I first became aware of the relationship between food and weight. Until then, thanks to genetics and a love of playing outdoors, I had been thin and athletic, winning trophies at athletics and swimming carnivals. Food had never been a central focus of my thoughts—there was always plenty of it, and it had no bearing on my self-worth. My childhood was filled with adventure, play, and friendship.
Food, however, was an important cultural component of my upbringing. Gatherings at my grandmother's house were filled with the rich aromas of freshly fried chicken, steaming stews, and the vibrant, flavorful Korean dishes she prepared with love. Meals were about connection, tradition, and nourishment, not guilt or restriction. At the same time, it was often a greeting call. A comment on weight gained and the beauty standards around me, made it abundantly clear what was normal, and what was not.
It must have been in grade 8 or 9, that kids around me became increasingly conscious of their appearances. Clothing brands, trends, and body image started to dominate conversations. I had always loved food, sometimes eating my packed lunch early simply because I couldn’t wait. Looking back, I was never overweight—never what society would label as fat—but I started feeling bigger, stronger, and more athletic than many of my female peers. And that realisation planted a seed.
Clearing the Record – The Misconception About Disordered Eating
Narcissistic. Shallow. Superficial. These are just a few words unfairly associated with people experiencing disordered eating. In reality, eating disorders are among the most complex and deadly mental health conditions. They are not about vanity but about pain, control, and survival. They have the highest mortality rate of all mental illnesses, yet they remain heavily misunderstood and stigmatised.
Life can be relentless. Expectations—academic, familial, societal—press in from all directions. Some of us may be genetically predisposed to disordered eating, while others develop unhealthy behaviors due to external pressures. A casual comment about weight from a parent, a friend, or a magazine can quietly lodge itself in a young mind, growing roots that are hard to untangle.
But disordered eating is rarely just about food. When you’re sneaking snacks to binge in private or eating past the point of comfort at social gatherings, only to purge in secret, it’s no longer about appearance. It becomes a coping mechanism—a way to numb pain, anxiety, and fear. It fosters isolation, secrecy, and self-punishment.
I developed an eating disorder at 17, and it stayed with me for the better part of a decade. I grew up in what looked like a picture-perfect family, but when my younger sister became a drug addict at 14, our lives were thrown into chaos. Police visits, rehab centers, and therapy sessions became the backdrop of my adolescence. My parents carried an unimaginable burden, and my older brother and I did what we could to lighten their load. We became self-sufficient, disciplined, and emotionally distant.
For me, food became the one thing I could control. If I ate a certain way, followed certain rules, and exercised enough, I felt like I was managing the chaos around me. If I deviated, the guilt was unbearable. I would either compensate at the gym or promise to do better the next day.
This was the beginning of my battle. A battle not against food, but against myself.
While I’ve largely recovered and forgotten about this stage of my life, I guess I’m writing this to remember. And to help anyone who may be experiencing a similar struggle and challenges, using food as a numbing agent.
In the next part, I’ll explore the triggers—the moments and influences that deepened my struggle and solidified disordered eating as a way of life.
