I came to these rooms honestly, although years ago I never would have considered myself a food addict. I could say I was a compulsive overeater, but “food addict” felt different—like an identity rather than a behavior. Over the ten years I’ve been here, I’ve come to accept that I am a food addict.
What I remember most from my earliest days is the fear, doubt, and insecurity I carried as a kid. I couldn’t have labeled it then; I just knew I was scared all the time and wanted to hide. I was the shy child you never heard from. People said children should be seen and not heard, and that suited me because opening my mouth felt terrifying.
I grew up with two parents and a sister close in age. We were a close family, with relatives nearby. My parents were protective, so I didn’t roam the neighborhood or have many playmates—mostly my sister and a cousin. Maybe that made me more dependent on them. What I do know is that the fear, doubt, and insecurity felt baked in from the start.
School didn’t change that much. I was shy and kept quiet. At home we ate on a schedule—breakfast, lunch, dinner—and we didn’t snack much. The sweet, flour-and-sugar treats came only for company or holidays, which made them special. I loved those from a very young age, and if my sister and I were especially good, sometimes a little “surprise” would appear on our bureaus for morning. I’d wake up and dive for it.
I was tall—eventually five-ten—which made me feel different, gawky, out of proportion. I couldn’t hide even though I wanted to. I didn’t stand out for accomplishments; I tried to be invisible.
Life went on quietly until I was sixteen, when my father died suddenly. Money got tight. I took a part-time job—ironically, in a bakery. I could eat anything there, and I did. I was still skinny with a fast metabolism, but the daily exposure to sugar and flour kicked something into gear. That ready access turned a taste into a pattern.
I graduated, started working, and dated someone who was my opposite—outgoing and magnetic. People flocked to them, and I felt tolerated because they were interested in me. I was accepted by association, or so I believed. On graduation day I was unexpectedly offered a small scholarship to a local teachers college. I hadn’t applied—there was no money, and I didn’t think college was for me. I tried anyway and flunked out after the first semester. That humiliation clung to me for 30 years. It kept me from even taking a single night class. I told myself, “I failed once; I’ll fail again.”
I went to work as a secretary. Eventually we married. Life looked “right”: a home, a career in the family, then a daughter and, a bit later, twin sons. Before kids we ate out often; cooking wasn’t really my thing. After the twins, I had 10–20 pounds I couldn’t shed. I’d never had to diet, and I didn’t know how. I figured it would magically disappear. It didn’t.
Our marriage seemed fine—until it wasn’t. After nearly ten years together, my spouse told me they were gay and would be leaving. I was shocked and devastated. All that fear and insecurity roared back. I wanted to crawl under the covers and have someone take care of me, but I had three children who needed me. That’s when my eating turned clearly addictive.
I remember sitting on the floor in front of the TV with a paper bag in my lap, hand going in and out, and then hitting the bottom: empty. “Where did it all go?” That’s the first time I consciously recognized addictive eating. Not long after, on what would have been our anniversary, I pulled out the wedding album with a bottle of sparkling wine and drank the whole thing. I realized in that moment I could be headed toward alcoholism. I didn’t repeat that—but I turned more deeply to food.
The weight crept up: 10 pounds, 20, 30, 40. For someone vain about being thin, it was brutal. I squeezed into too-small clothes and bought elastic waists to fool myself. I tried Weight Watchers—lost big the first week, then couldn’t keep it up. A medical weight-loss clinic wouldn’t take me; I wasn’t heavy enough by their standards. The only thing that “worked” briefly was starving myself every summer for a few weeks to peel off pounds—until even that stopped working.
Eventually my daughter discovered a twelve-step program for food and started to change—happier, kinder, less irritable. She invited me to a Sunday meeting. I walked into a room of about 200 people—slim, glowing, hopeful. Someone offered to sponsor me. I was too scared to say yes, but I kept going to meetings. Later that week I heard someone tiny, calm, and serene share. I wanted what they had, and they were available to sponsor me.
They laid it out simply: three weighed-and-measured meals a day, nothing in between, no flour and no sugar; on my knees in the morning to ask God for help and at night in gratitude; read the Big Book and a daily reader. I jumped in. At first, abstinence felt easy, almost magical. I lost weight quickly and wondered why I hadn’t thought of this myself. But after six months I broke my abstinence—and couldn’t get it back. Shame and self-centered fear pushed me out. I stayed away for a year and a half, and my eating exploded. I ate almost exclusively flour and sugar and gained 50–60 pounds. I never hit a plateau; the scale just kept climbing.
I ate constantly—on the way to work, at my desk, hiding wrappers in a restroom trash can, stopping at the same stores so often that the clerks knew my routine. I was a ritualistic eater. I didn’t know how to stop.
During that time, a cousin I loved was dying. The sicker they got, the more I ate. The weekend they died, I had what I hope was my last binge. I even ran into their family while I was buying my “supplies.” I wanted the ground to swallow me, but I still bought the food and hid to eat alone. I cried and ate, watched tears fall into the packaging, and still didn’t stop. That’s where this disease took me: to self-loathing so intense I couldn’t meet my own eyes in the mirror.
A couple of people from the program kept checking on me, reminding me I could come back. After that final binge, I called one of them. They told me to meet them at a familiar meeting on Tuesday; someone there could sponsor me. I still binged through the weekend, but I went Tuesday. That night I got a sponsor and felt saved. I went home, got on my knees, and felt a deep peace.
Later that night my cousin passed away. I sat with the family through the night and didn’t eat or drink my way through it—a miracle. Early recovery carried me through the wake and funeral too. It wasn’t easy this time; I had to work for it and ask God for help, but when I asked, I got it. I told myself that taking a bite would be throwing away a gift—throwing it in God’s face and in the face of the last gift my cousin’s life gave me.
My life has changed dramatically in the ten years since. There have been big moments—grandchildren, job changes, buying a home after decades of renting—but the real miracle is in the day-to-day. I used to live in yesterday, trying to rewrite the past. Recovery taught me to live in the present. The present isn’t always comfortable, but I don’t have to eat over it. If I’m spinning, I can pick up the phone and talk to another addict instead of heading to a vending machine.
These years haven’t been “perfect abstinence” end to end, but even when I slipped, I knew this is where I belong. This is where I grow and change. On my own, I’m hopeless; one bite can send me right back out. Not wanting to be out there anymore is a gift.
When my sister was dying six years ago, I didn’t have to eat through it. I could show up calm and present. I even remember bringing my dinner to the hospital on a meeting night, eating with her, and then being nudged to go to my meeting. I was being cared for in ways I couldn’t care for myself.
Today I wake up with hope. I’m excited for a new day. When I came in at forty-eight, I thought the good things had already happened. Now I know there’s still possibility, joy in ordinary moments, and a community that has enriched my life beyond measure. I’m grateful to be an addict with a solution—not someone still out there searching.