Triggers – When Life Stress Becomes a Daily Battle (Mindfulness+ED Part 2.)
Disordered eating doesn’t develop overnight. It starts as a response—a seemingly small way to cope with life’s pressures. For me, the first trigger was stress. Stress, that as a child I didn’t know how to process, let alone deal with. The weight of expectations, the pressure to perform, and the unpredictable nature of life all pushed me toward food and consumption as a source of comfort and control.
At first, it was occasional. A particularly bad day at home or school, a difficult conversation, or an overwhelming workload would lead me to eat more than I needed, then restrict my intake entirely. I told myself it was just a way to feel better, to regain a sense of balance. But over time, what began as an occasional coping mechanism became an ingrained habit.
Before I knew it, the cycle had embedded itself into my daily routine. Stress wasn’t an occasional disruption—it was constant. The more I leaned on food for relief, the more I lost control. I would eat to quiet my thoughts, to momentarily silence the anxieties that loomed over me. And then, just as quickly, the shame and guilt would set in, leading me to compensate, restrict, or over-exercise. My self control dwindled away and with it my self worth and confidence.
When Life Itself Becomes a Trigger
Eventually, it wasn’t just moments of stress that triggered the behaviour—life itself became the trigger. Normal daily routines, social interactions, and even the simple act of waking up and facing the day felt overwhelming. Food became both a comfort and a weapon, something I relied on but also feared. It was a tool to manage emotions I didn’t know how to process, a way to maintain control when everything else felt unstable. Arguments with my mom? I’d turn to food. Pressure in my job to complete a project? I’d focus so intently and forget to eat, waking a monster within me to overcompensate the blind workaholism.
Every meal became a result of my life, every bite a decision that carried immense weight. If I ate too much, I felt like a failure. If I restricted too much, I felt powerful—but only temporarily. The cycle repeated itself endlessly, leaving me exhausted and disconnected from my own body and needs. The ironic thing was, I never allowed myself to gain weight, thereby falling under the radar of all my family and friends. I’d restrict or overcompensate to counteract any possible weight gain.
The Role of Shame in the Cycle
Shame was an ever-present shadow, reinforcing my disordered behaviours. At first, I hid my struggles because I didn’t want to admit I had a problem. Over time, the secrecy became a necessity. The deeper I sank into the cycle, the more ashamed I felt about my inability to stop. I convinced myself that no one would understand, that admitting my struggles would make me weak or burdensome.
This shame fed the disorder, trapping me in a relentless loop. The more I struggled, the more I hid it. The more I hid it, the more isolated I became. And the more isolated I became, the more I turned to food for solace.
The shame didn’t just come from my own self-judgment—it came from the world around me. Society told me that discipline was admirable, that thinness equaled success, that losing control over food was a personal failure. I internalised these messages until they became my own inner voice, berating me every time I wavered from the impossible standards I had set for myself. Feeling like a failure if I caved into my body’s genuine hunger.
By the time I realised the depth of my struggle, I was no longer in control. My thoughts revolved around food, my emotions were dictated by what I ate or didn’t eat, and my sense of self-worth was tied entirely to maintaining an illusion of control.
In the next part, I will delve deeper into the role of secrecy and shame—the hidden burdens that come with disordered eating and the way they further entrench the struggle.
