Please note that this is an Archived article and may contain content that is out of date. The use of she/her/hers pronouns in some articles is not intended to be exclusionary. Eating disorders can affect people of all genders, ages, races, religions, ethnicities, sexual orientations, body shapes, and weights.

By: Quinn Nystrom, MS

This year I passed five years without alcohol or purging. I can write that sentence plainly now, but I still know what it took to get here. Some days in those five years were beautiful. Some were ordinary. Some were so hard that the most honest description of my progress was getting through the day and reaching the next one.

September is National Recovery Month. I appreciate a month that makes room to talk about treatment, community, and hope. But when I hear the word “recovery,” I also think about the people who are still wondering whether their struggle counts, whether they need help, or whether they have to fix themselves before they can ask for it. I remember how shame can keep a person moving in circles.

Alcohol and bulimia did not look identical in my life, yet both offered a kind of temporary escape. Purging promised relief from feelings I could not tolerate. Drinking offered another way to change how I felt. The relief was brief, and the cost kept growing. It took treatment, honesty with other people, and repeated practice to build different ways of living.

I hope to be careful when I talk about five years. A milestone is meaningful, and I’m proud of mine. It is not proof that recovery is neat or that every difficult feeling disappears. It doesn’t mean I never need support. It means that over many days, I have found ways to choose the life I want, including days when that choice was very small.

Some of the most useful changes were quieter than people might expect. I learned to tell someone when I was struggling, before a crisis made it unavoidable. I learned that a craving or an urge is information, not an order. I learned that rest, food, connection, and structure aren’t prizes for doing well; they are part of what helps me stay well. And I learned that shame thrives when I pretend I’m fine.

Recovery also changed how I understand strength. I used to think strength meant handling everything on my own. I could perform competence even when I was hurting. I could meet a deadline, care for someone else, or smile in a room while privately bargaining with an urge. From the outside, my life could look functional. On the inside, I was exhausted.

Recovery had practical parts that rarely fit in an inspiring anniversary post. I had to make plans for difficult hours, notice what happened before an urge, and let someone know when isolation was becoming dangerous for me. I had to return to those tools after I felt better, which was sometimes harder than using them in a crisis. Recovery was built through repetition. No single brave decision solved everything forever.

Asking for help was a different kind of strength. It made me to let others see what I had hidden and accept that I deserved care before I could produce a reassuring outcome. For me, treatment and recovery communities were places to practice that honesty. I needed people who could respond to the whole person, not only to the behavior they could see.

Living with both an eating disorder and alcohol use disorder taught me why it matters to tell providers the full story. If one behavior stops while the pain beneath it goes unaddressed, another can take its place. That does not mean everyone has the same underlying cause or the same treatment path. It means care works better when people are allowed to bring all of their experiences into the room: mood, trauma, food, substances, relationships, medical needs, and the pressures of ordinary life.

Milestones have another side we don’t discuss enough. Someone may read “five years” on day one, or while they are trying again after a return to use or symptoms. I never want my number to become a measuring stick against them. A streak does not determine a person’s worth. A return to a behavior is serious and deserves attention, but it does not erase the care they received, the skills they learned, or the possibility of taking the next step.

If you love someone who is recovering, you may wonder what to say. You do not have to find a perfect line. Ask what kind of support is actually helpful. Celebrate a milestone if they want to. Keep showing up on the normal days. Avoid making their recovery a public story without permission. And remember that someone can be doing well and still need room to say, “Today is hard.”

I hope we also make space for people whose recovery doesn’t look like mine. Some use medication, some attend peer groups, some pursue residential or outpatient treatment, and some need to try more than one combination of supports. Family circumstances, money, transportation, and access to specialized health care shape what is possible. Instead of comparing paths, we can help remove barriers and take each person’s effort seriously.

If you are the person struggling, you do not have to wait for a dramatic breaking point. You can tell a therapist, doctor, trusted friend, sponsor, or treatment team what is happening right now. You can ask for an assessment, a different level of care, or help making a plan for the next day. There is no requirement that you first prove you are “sick enough.”

Five years have given me more than the absence of two behaviors. It has given me mornings I remember, meals I can share, relationships I can show up for, and a fuller ability to be present in my own life. It has also taught me to treat my health as something worth tending, again and again.

This Recovery Month, I am thankful for the people who helped me reach this milestone. I am thinking of those who are beginning, restarting, or quietly holding on. Recovery can begin with a modest act of truth: telling one safe person what is going on and allowing them to help you take the next step. That act deserves as much respect as any anniversary.