Crow and Flame

Body dysmorphia doesn’t always arrive loudly.

Sometimes it slips in quietly, wearing the mask of control.

Sometimes it disguises itself as concern.

Sometimes it shows up when the body is already tired, already struggling, already asking for mercy.

I have a health condition.

My body is worn thin in ways no one can see.

Fatigue clings to me like fog.

Dizziness interrupts simple moments—standing, walking, breathing through a grocery aisle.

The gym, once a place of release, is no longer accessible to me.

Not because I don’t want to go.

Because my body cannot.

And in that absence—

the old voices return.

They whisper in numbers.

The number on the scale.

The numbers on labels.

The math of every bite I put into my mouth.

I catch myself fixating.

Counting.

Negotiating.

Punishing.

I try to eat less.

Then less than that.

I avoid food not because I am not hungry, but because hunger feels safer than the fear of becoming “too much.”

Too big.

Too visible.

Too wrong.

I resist the urge to purge.

I remind myself I have walked this road before and nearly lost myself on it.

I grip the edge of the counter, the edge of the moment, the edge of my breath.

Some days, the mirror feels like an enemy combatant.

I study my reflection with a critical eye—

searching for proof that I am failing.

Scanning for changes only I seem to notice.

My chest tightens.

My heart races.

Panic blooms without warning.

This is what body dysmorphia does.

It turns survival into suspicion.

It makes illness feel like a personal failure.

It convinces you that rest is laziness, nourishment is weakness, softness is danger.

But here is the truth I am learning—slowly, imperfectly:

My body is not betraying me.

It is asking for care in a language I am still learning to understand.

The numbers are not moral indicators.

They are not evidence of worth.

They are not a measure of discipline or love or strength.

This body—

the dizzy one,

the exhausted one,

the one that no longer moves the way it used to—

is still mine.

And it is still deserving of gentleness.

Healing, I am discovering, is not a straight line away from old habits.

It is a daily choice to pause.

To eat even when fear is loud.

To look away from the mirror when it becomes cruel.

To sit with discomfort without turning it into punishment.

Some days I do this well.

Some days I don’t.

But every time I choose not to harm myself—

every time I choose nourishment over control,

compassion over shame—

I am quietly reclaiming ground.

Body dysmorphia thrives in silence.

So I am naming it.

I am not weak for struggling.

I am not broken because my body needs rest.

I am not failing because my life looks different now.

I am listening.

I am learning.

I am still here.

And today, that is enough.