Please note that this is an Archived article and may contain content that is out of date.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, M.S.

One of the most common conversations I have with people entering eating disorder treatment isn’t about food, weight, or behaviors.

It’s about time.

“I’m falling behind.”

“I can’t leave my job.”

“I can’t miss a semester of school.”

“I can’t put my life on hold.”

Many patients prefer outpatient care, even when a higher level of care is recommended. Their symptoms may clearly indicate that more support is needed, but the fear of stepping away from life is overwhelming.

I understand that fear because I lived it.

At 24, I felt like I had finally made it.

I graduated from college during the 2008 recession and landed a well-paying job with benefits. I bought my first home in Minneapolis and lived independently. Outwardly, my life looked successful.

But underneath that success, my bulimia was unraveling.

At my first eating disorder assessment, I wasn’t fully honest about my illness. Minimizing my struggles was my habit, so I kept up my mask.

I also knew what a higher level of care might require me to give up.

My job, routines, privacy, and keeping my eating disorder hidden.

After the assessment, I was approved for outpatient treatment. I was scared but relieved, I wouldn’t have to tell my employer or explain to friends. Life could continue, I thought.

Or so I thought.

The problem was that I became very good at juggling recovery and my eating disorder at the same time.

I attended appointments and often said the right things, but never fully addressed why I turned to bulimia.

Because for me, it was never just about purging.

It was about control.

It was about self-inflicted punishment.

It was about numbing out when life became too painful.

After seven months of outpatient treatment and very little progress, I finally decided to tell my therapist the whole truth.

Everything.

No minimizing, editing, or protecting my image.

That honesty changed everything.

Together, we decided I needed a higher level of care.

I spent three weeks in inpatient treatment, followed by three months in residential treatment. After that, I chose to continue my recovery in an out-of-state step-down program for another two and a half months.

Seven months.

At the time, it felt like forever.

I was terrified of what people would think. I worried about work, friends, family, and whether everyone would somehow discover my secret.

But something unexpected happened.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t focused on work, house projects, social obligations, or my phone. I was focused on healing.

And that focus saved my life.

The other surprise?

Life kept moving while I was gone.

When I returned home, life had moved on. My career was intact. Relationships weren’t ruined. Most people were focused on their own lives, not on where I had been.

Recovery did not take away my future. Instead, it created the foundation for a real future worth living.

It had given me one.

In the fifteen years since, I’ve built a meaningful career. I’ve married my best friend. I’ve become a mother. I’ve developed deeper, more authentic friendships and relationships than I ever thought possible.

I don’t believe any of that would have happened if I had continued trying to rush treatment.

When you’re in the middle of an eating disorder, seven months can feel impossibly long. But viewed across a lifetime, it is a remarkably short investment in your future.

If your treatment team is recommending a higher level of care, I encourage you to ask yourself an honest question:

What if the life you fear missing out on is actually the one waiting for you after recovery?