“Mom, you aren’t perfect, you know.”
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that from my kids, I could probably afford a whole new wardrobe. While I often feel the urge to dispute their claims, deep down, I know they’re right.
On October 20, 2016, I finally revealed a secret I had kept for nearly a decade to someone other than myself and my supportive husband: I was battling an eating disorder. The anxiety I felt was overwhelming, the type that makes your heart race and your palms sweaty. The confession was aimed at my two sons, who were then 12 and 15 years old.
My therapist, Sarah, encouraged me to open up to my children, reassuring me that I was dealing with an illness, not a character flaw. However, I struggled to believe that perspective and was doubtful that my teenagers would understand. I had worked so hard to create a loving and secure environment for them, and I feared that sharing my struggles would shatter that sense of safety.
As we sat together in Sarah’s office, I could sense the gravity of the moment. My youngest son, Alex, nestled close to me on the couch, while my eldest, Sam, sat across the room, arms crossed and sporting a classic teenage glare. Clearly, this session was interfering with his plans to hang out with friends.
“So, guys,” I began, hesitating as I prepared to share the truth. I was about to admit that I didn’t have all the answers and was far from flawless. “I want to let you know that I’m going into treatment for an eating disorder, specifically anorexia nervosa.”
The room fell silent. Alex leaned his head on my shoulder, while Sam’s reaction was immediate. “What?” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of shock and anger. “Mom, you can’t have anorexia! That’s something only teenage girls have. How could you let this happen?” His intensity was surprising and made even Sarah flinch. It struck me deeply—how could I, the one who tries to keep everything together, have let this occur?
I could have chosen to keep my struggles hidden from my children, maintaining the façade that everything was fine. They were old enough to be preoccupied with their own lives, so my increasing absences due to outpatient treatment might have gone unnoticed. But I took a leap of faith, choosing to share my battle and my need for help.
As a parent, my instinct has always been to shield my children from life’s harsher truths. I kept the struggles of marriage, parenting, and finances away from their view. Yet, in hiding my fight against anorexia, I wasn’t protecting them as I thought. Sam’s outburst reflected his fear, as he had sensed for years that something was amiss with me. My frail appearance, constant exercise routine, and obsession with food were hard to conceal, despite my efforts to appear normal. Kids have an uncanny ability to see through parental facades, and it was clear my attempts at hiding the truth had failed.
The journey to recovery has been a challenging one for all of us, but confessing my struggles to my children has ultimately improved my parenting. Through my recovery, they have learned that life can present unexpected challenges, and it’s okay to seek help when needed.
Today, I am grateful to be in recovery and am navigating the complexities of parenting my boys during their own tumultuous teenage years. This is a period marked by pressure, social media influence, and the quest for approval. Sharing my experience has allowed me to offer them a more grounded perspective, providing a safe space for them to express their feelings.
I’m thankful I took that risk and moved past the notion that a good parent must have all the answers. My hope is that my children understand that nobody is perfect, and that’s completely acceptable. For those interested in further reading about the challenges of parenting and self-care, check out this enlightening blog post here.
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In summary, sharing my struggles with an eating disorder has helped me grow as a parent and taught my children valuable lessons about vulnerability and the importance of seeking help.
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