where it begins

The first time I remember looking in the mirror, I wasn’t looking at me. 

I was looking for the girl I thought I was supposed to be. And she wasn't there. 

I was nine. Maybe ten. Standing in a fitting room with my mom. The walls were white. The lighting was fluorescent and unkind.

And I just stood there. 

Looking.

Something had already shifted by then. I wasn't playing dress-up anymore. I wasn't twirling or pretending to be a pop star. I wasn't performing.

I was assessing. Measuring. Judging. 

I remember hating the way my pants looked. But convincing myself they looked good by sucking in my stomach. Turning sideways. Pulling at my shirt. Watching how it clung to me. 

I didn't know the word for it, but I knew the feeling.

Shame.

I had been told I was beautiful before. I’d seen the pictures of me as a toddler with ringlet curls and baby thighs, smiling at the camera like I owned the world. 

But now, at age ten, there were whispers. Little comments.

“She’s solid.”

“She’s big for her age.”

“Dont eat all of that, sweetie.”

I didn't understand calories yet, but I understood disappointment. 

I understood the way that grown-ups were looking at me. I could tell I was becoming “too much”.  

Too loud.

Too hungry.

Too big. 

So I stopped asking for seconds. I stopped wearing tank tops. I started pulling at my shirt whenever I sat down. I started sucking in when I walked past mirrors. 

And that's how it begins.  

Not with a diet. Not with a doctor. Not with a diagnosis. 

But with a little girl. In a fitting room. Trying to disappear into a version of herself that doesn’t exist. 

The worst part? Usually nobody notices. Because those little girls smile through it. They are the “good girls”. The helpful ones, who didn't make a fuss. 

But the girl in the mirror knows. She saw the shift. She felt the quiet unraveling. 

She didn’t hate herself yet. But she was learning to. 

I wish I could go back to her. Wrap her in my arms and say:

 “You are not too much. 

You are perfect the way you are. 

And you are just the beginning”

Eating disorders don’t just happen. They are taught, hinted at, and whispered into little ears.

If you’re tired of shrinking or trying to disappear, say so. Tell someone. Say it out loud.