The Voice I Called My Own - A Personal Narrative by Hannah Gross

This story is shared not as a client’s letter, but as a therapist’s lived experience—one that shaped my clinical lens and deepened my compassion. I offer it as an honest window into the internal world of an eating disorder: how it seduces, entangles, and eventually suffocates—and how healing unfolds not in grand gestures, but in slow, courageous acts of return to self. 

I didn’t always know it had a name.

At first, it felt like a friend—one that appeared quietly, almost gently. I was thirteen when I first heard it. Not out loud, but in a way that was just as real. It came during a time of change: my body was shifting in ways I didn’t understand, friends were drifting away, and the grief of childhood losses had begun to settle in like fog. I felt untethered.

That’s when it started speaking.

“If you can control this, you will find comfort.” “If you follow the rules, you’ll be deserving.” “If you’re small enough, quiet enough, disciplined enough… maybe you’ll finally feel safe.”

It offered comfort disguised as control. I didn’t know then that it was an eating disorder. I only knew it made me feel powerful—for a while. It gave me a strange sense of stability, even as everything else felt like it was unraveling.

In the beginning, the bargain felt worth it. I traded hunger for order. I gave up spontaneity, connection, even my own voice—but in return, I felt like I was doing something right. I got praised for my “discipline,” for being “healthy,” for being “so mature.” No one could see how much I was hurting.

That voice became my constant companion. It told me when to eat, when to stop, how to move, what to wear, how to shrink. It criticized every glance in the mirror and demanded perfection at every turn. I welcomed it. I relied on it. I started to believe the voice was me.

But eventually, I noticed the cracks. I started to miss birthday cake. Laughter. Connection. I started to fear the very things that once brought joy. The fear grew louder than the voice.

Recovery wasn’t linear. It was a tug-of-war between staying in the comfort of the known and stepping into the vulnerability of freedom. I relapsed. I moved forward. I froze. I tried again. Healing came in moments: in meals shared with friends, in rest chosen over exercise, in therapy sessions that unraveled shame. It came in grieving who I was with the disorder, and learning who I could be without it.

This story isn’t about perfection. It’s about humanity.

The voice I once trusted lied to me. It told me I wasn’t enough. It told me my worth lived in my weight, my control, my silence.

But the truth is—I always was enough. And so are you.