Still at the Table: When Trauma Makes Ghosts of Food

A raw personal essay of eating disorders, inherited shame, and the ongoing work of healing at 46

Before we begin: This is a vulnerable piece about eating disorders and childhood trauma. Please honor your own boundaries as you read.

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Some mornings, I wake up and already feel it—the weight of every bite I’ve ever eaten, every bite I refused. The memory of shame lingers in my chest like a stone I can’t move.

It started young.

The first time I realized food could be dangerous, it wasn't the food itself, it was my mother striking the food from my hand, then making me throw up what I'd already eaten.

I learned quickly to disappear behind salad leaves and empty plates. To count, measure, deny. To swallow my emotions whole. To convince myself that control over my body meant safety from the chaos at home.

Anorexia was the first language I found for my fear. It felt like power. Like armor. But it was also a prison. I traded one kind of pain for another.

As I grew, the rules changed, but the obsession didn’t. Where once I restricted, I later binged. Where once I punished, I later comforted. My relationship with food became a constant negotiation, a battleground between desire and guilt, fear and need.

Sometimes I would eat to soothe the trauma. Sometimes I would avoid eating to punish myself for still carrying it. Sometimes I felt like I was negotiating with a stranger in the mirror:

"Just this once. Just this much. You can have it, but not too much. You don’t deserve it."

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Even now, decades later, I still struggle. I still feel the torment of my parents’ shaming, the whispers that my appetite is something to be controlled, hidden, managed. I still feel the tension between craving and fear, between needing and deserving.

At 46, when I reach for a snack, I catch myself looking at my husband (even though he has never once judged what I eat). The words spill out before I can stop them: "Please don't judge me for eating this." As if I still need permission. As if love comes with conditions about what I put in my mouth.

That's what trauma does. It makes ghosts of the past speak louder than the love standing right in front of you sometimes.

And yet, I try.

I try to meet my body with care. I try to honor hunger without judgment. I try to listen when I’m full, and to feed myself when I’m empty. I try to remember that food is not the enemy. That my body is not the enemy and that my history is not a verdict on my worth.

I think about that younger version of me,
the one who believed she had to keep disappearing.
And I want to tell her:
You don’t have to be ashamed.
You don’t have to justify every bite.
Your body was never the problem.

It’s a slow and messy process. Sometimes it feels impossible. But I am still at the table, still showing up for myself, still learning what it means to nourish, not just survive.

I wrote last week about Cupcakes and Shame—how that single moment carries decades of inherited guilt. Maybe this is the sequel I didn't know I was writing. The deeper dive into how those early messages shaped not just what I ate, but how I learned to exist in my own skin.

And if you’ve struggled here too,
please know:
you’re not alone at the table.

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Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

I want to hear from you.

Have you ever felt trapped in your relationship with food? What helps you find moments of peace with your body?

Reply and share your thoughts, I’d love to hold space for this conversation with you.

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Inspiration Corner

To support you wherever you are on your journey with food and healing, here’s a few things that have helped me hold space for myself:

Book: Intuitive Eating by Evelyn Tribole & Elyse Resch — a guide to unlearning diet culture and learning to trust your body again.

Quote: “Your body hears everything your mind says.” — Naomi Judd

Song: Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers

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