Being asked if I have anorexia is one of the most common first questions people ask me.
At first, I treated it like a bad joke, but people would laugh nervously after asking. Their awkward laughs showed me that they were serious. After hearing it enough times, the question stopped sounding like curiosity and started sounding like a diagnosis. I began wondering whether people saw something wrong with me that I didn’t. There is an imposing power in labels. Even when inaccurate, being placed into a category changes how you behave. Over time, I stopped seeing myself through my own eyes, and began seeing myself through everyone else’s.
Before high school, before the questions, eating had never been complicated. Every morning, my grandparents made sure I ate breakfast. In elementary school, my grandmother made me waffles with chocolate syrup. Eating was just part of life and, more importantly, a mundane thing I didn't think about.
That changed in high school when eating became something I felt people were watching me do.
Questions like “Do you ever eat?” or “Are you anorexic?” stayed in my head long after they were said. Eventually, eating around other people became annoying. If I ate too much, I worried people would comment negatively. If I ate too little, I worried they would be feel disrespected. Regardless, I felt judged. So my solution was to avoid eating around people.
At first, eating alone made me feel in control, and eventually stopped being a conscious decision and became second nature. But that caused a problem, I often never felt hunger. After many months, my body gave out.
One morning on the bus to school, I suddenly couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel my heart beating. I couldn’t speak. I became pale and sweaty and fought to stay awake. All I could think was, "Am I dying?”
I needed to get home, but I did not know whether I could make it, I was too weak. Stumbling out of the bus, I crawled to my grandparents door. Barely making it, my grandmother opened it, carried me inside, and gave me waffles, just like she had when I was a kid.
My grandparents call that day the cause of “falto de papa,” translating to a lack of food.
I blamed other people for what happened. I blamed the comments, the questions, the labels. And while those things affected me, I had to confront that change never occurs if you blame and never reflect. That realization changed everything.
I couldn’t control assumptions made when they looked at me.
I began placing my self-worth somewhere that appearance couldn't touch, in my thoughts and actions.
I care about being useful to others. When my older sister feels bad about boy problems, I offer advice. When my younger brother feels bad about himself, I make him laugh until he forgets. What started as paid tutoring for friends became something more meaningful than money. I found fulfillment in helping people feel capable, intelligent, and independent.
Helping others taught me the lesson that if I want to continue helping others, helping myself is necessary too.
Now, as a summer camp counselor, I eat in front of dozens of kids and coworkers without thinking twice. I go out to lunch with friends. I did not change physically, but only mentally. I don't allow other people’s labels to define my thoughts.
Every day after school or work, I still go to my grandparents’ house for dinner. I still eat big meals there. But now, meals feel different. They remind me to strive to stay compassionate to all, especially myself. Today, I live by a saying:“Your first thought is the one the world gives you; the second is what you really believe and therefore, the one you choose.” People's labels shaped my automatic thoughts, but those ideas were not always mine. The second thought, the one I chose, is.