I Survived It. I Just Didn’t Stay Me

I survived it. That’s what everyone says matters. But no one talks about what you lose while you’re busy surviving.

For me, it wasn’t one moment or something dramatic. It was quiet, and it showed up in my body. There was a time when I took care of myself, not for anyone else, but I won’t lie, it felt good to be seen, to be noticed, to hear people ask how I managed to look the way I did at my age. That version of me existed. Now it feels like she’s missing, not completely gone, just far enough that I can’t reach her the way I used to.

And the hardest part is that I know exactly what’s happening. I’ve done this before. I’ve lost the weight, I’ve shown up, I’ve taken control. I even proved it recently. Two weeks, five pounds, just so I could sit across from a friend and not feel like she was looking at me with pity. So I know I can do it. That’s not the problem.

The problem is that nothing moves me now.

Not the concerts I used to go to, not the trips I would have planned without thinking, not even the version of me that used to feel good being seen. It’s like something disconnected, and now I watch myself doing the opposite of what I know I need. Eating what I shouldn’t, ignoring what I already understand, slowly becoming someone I don’t recognize and don’t want to become.

And still, I don’t stop.

That’s the part that scares me, because it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels automatic, like I’m aware of the damage and still letting it happen. I keep thinking, what if this doesn’t stop? What if I keep going in this direction until there’s no easy way back?

That’s not insecurity. That’s fear. Not of how I look, but of losing control of something that used to be mine.

I didn't lose myself all at once. I just stopped showing up as the version who knew how to take care of herself. And the longer that gap stays open, the harder it feels to step back into it.

I survived a lot. I just didn’t stay me.
And I know it.