The Summer I Starved Myself
Hi, friend. This is part four of my college series, where I share the challenges I faced during my time at UNC. If you haven’t already, you can catch up on the earlier posts here.
Trigger Warning: This post discusses eating disorders and may be triggering for some readers. Please proceed with caution.
It’s a Thursday morning in early June 2011, and the summer heat is already suffocating. I’ve just finished a slow, painful six-mile run along the familiar roads near the church where I grew up. This route is lined with memories from my teenage years—when running felt effortless, and I believed the world was at my feet. In high school, these streets used to feel like mine—back when I was strong, fast, and confident. Just a year ago, I ran this same route five minutes quicker. Back then, I’d feel proud and accomplished after a long run. But today, all I feel is disgust. Every step is heavier than the last, a painful reminder of how far I’ve let myself go. My body jiggles with each movement, and I can’t focus on anything else.
When I finally finish, I make my way to the tree swing in front of my childhood home. I let the seat sway slightly as I try to catch my breath. Sweat drips down my back, pooling at the waistband of my shorts. The air is thick, but the real discomfort isn’t just from the heat—it’s from the disappointment that sits heavy in my chest every time I look down at my body.
I am huge, I think. Gross. Pathetic.
I’ve gained 20 pounds over my freshman year at UNC. It’s been the toughest year of my life, and I don’t know how to handle the constant anxiety. I’ve tried to escape the pain in different ways. Alcohol helped during the partying scenes at school, but I don’t even like the taste, and my parents don’t keep it in the house. The only thing that seems to work is binge-eating for comfort, then vomiting to rid myself of the guilt and sadness. Bulimia has become my only way of self-soothing. Binging and purging has become a familiar rhythm, my escape, a safety blanket wrapped tightly around my pain.
But lately, it’s starting to fail me. Recently, after eating, digested food shoots up my esophagus automatically, leaving a deep burning sensation behind. I am worried I am causing irreversible harm. The side effects of purging are starting to outweigh the comfort it once provided. I need a new plan—a new way to cope.
I’ve convinced myself I’ve got it all figured out. I will lose the weight before school starts—no matter the cost. I have three months to make it happen, and I’ve told myself there’s no other choice. That’s partly true—because these days, I can barely function under the weight of my self-hatred. It’s become unbearable to just be me.
I’ve been home for one week and I’ve already established a strict, rigid routine—a plan born out of desperation and a desperate need to regain control. I read online that my age and height require 1,800 calories a day, so I’ve decided to limit myself to 1,000. Breakfast is one cup of Special K cereal with skim milk. Lunch is a turkey wrap—no cheese—with celery and carrots, no ranch. Dinner is some combination of chicken and vegetables, carefully portioned and bland.
Workouts happen twice a day. I run in the morning and hit the gym in the afternoon. Sometimes, I swim laps at the local pool just to pass the time. When the hunger becomes unbearable, I allow myself a handful of unsalted almonds or chew gum to distract myself. Every moment is a battle against the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, but I remind myself: This is worth it.
However, this morning, it’s hard to stay positive. Today’s run was tougher than yesterday’s. The lack of food is starting to get to me, and I feel light-headed. I shake off the negative thoughts. Don’t be so weak. Suck it up, Sarah-Frances. This is what you get for letting yourself go. You should be stronger than this.
I peel off my t-shirt, hoping the slight breeze might cool me down, but I regret it instantly. This body is foreign to me. My eyes fall to my stomach, where rolls gather and spill over the waistband of my shorts. My thighs press together, round and soft. I grab at the extra flesh, pinching it in my hands, the self-loathing spreading through me like wildfire.
Inside the house, my mom is in the kitchen, icing freshly baked cinnamon rolls. The sweet, warm smell hangs in the air.
“These are almost ready if you want one,” she says with a smile, her voice so kind it makes my chest ache.
Does she not see what she’s doing? Does she not realize I cannot eat what she is offering? I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t even be tempted. But the scent wraps around me, luring me in like a trap.
Back in high school, when I played sports year-round, food was just fuel to me. I would’ve inhaled three of those rolls without a second thought, laughing and carefree, never questioning how they’d affect my body. I remember throwing my bag down after practice, hair still wet with sweat, and grabbing whatever food I wanted without thinking twice. But now, things are different. Now, food is an enemy, a test of willpower, a constant battle between hunger and shame.
“Why can’t this family ever eat healthy?” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. “It’s like all we ever do is eat processed junk.”
Her smile fades, replaced by a look of surprise and hurt. My irritability is at an all-time high, but I can’t seem to control it. I want to apologize, to take the words back, but instead, I storm upstairs to my bathroom.
Guilt hits me. Jesus, Sarah-Frances. Don’t be such a bitch! My mom didn’t deserve that. But then again, if she really cared, wouldn’t she stop buying all this junk? Doesn’t she see what it’s doing to me?
I kick off my shoes and step on the scale, holding my breath as the numbers flash. It’s higher than it was yesterday. I step off and back on again, as if that might change the outcome. It doesn’t.
How is this possible? I’ve been starving myself and pushing through workouts, and I’m getting no results. My heart sinks. The disappointment bubbles over. The frustration swirls until I feel like I’m going to burst.
After a quick shower—where I avoid looking at my reflection—I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. The world feels too heavy to face today. I opt to spend the day watching Gossip Girl in bed. I don’t have the courage to be around other people in my old shorts. I’ll wait until the weight is off. I’d rather hide until I look presentable again.
The summer creeps by, and every day I inch closer to my weight goal. The hunger pains are constant, but the results propel me forward. The days are long, but the nights are even longer. Hunger claws at me constantly, and I try to fend it off with Tic Tacs, almonds, and gum. Emotionally, the nights feel like an abyss—a time when my thoughts grow heavier, and the loneliness sets in. I chug water, hoping it will fill me up. Mostly, I count the minutes until my next meal. Evenings are the hardest. My parents eat delicious, normal meals downstairs while I stay in my room, away from temptation. I scroll aimlessly on my phone or stare at the ceiling, willing the hours to pass.
I only slip up once the entire summer. In late July, I wake up at 3:30 a.m. with hunger pains so severe I can’t ignore them. I count down the hours until breakfast, but it’s not enough. I creep downstairs and pour myself a bowl of Mini-Wheats, desperate for relief. The sugar and milk feel like heaven. But one bowl turns into two, then three, until I’ve finished the box.
The comfort quickly morphs into sadness and disgust. I spend the next hour hugging the toilet, punishing myself for being so undisciplined. I’ve lost all the progress I’ve made. I am pathetic. Why can’t I stop? What is wrong with me?
I feel so lost and lonely. Exhaustion finally helps me fall asleep. I just want this summer to be over. I promise God I’ll never let myself become so disgusting again.
By August, I’ve finally hit the number I’ve been obsessing over: 20 pounds lost in three months. The reflection in the mirror shows a smaller version of me, but the emptiness that’s followed me all summer still lingers, untouched.
I’m eager to return to school, to show off what I’ve “achieved.” When I walk into the apartment my roommates and I rented for sophomore year, they’re speechless. “Oh my God, you look incredible!” “You’re so tiny!” they gush. I smile, basking in their praise. “Thanks, y’all. Just been hitting the gym,” I say casually, trying to downplay it, make it seem effortless. Their compliments fuel me, and in that moment, the lie feels more real than ever.
That night, before heading out to He’s Not Here, one of our favorite spots on Franklin Street, I pause in front of the mirror. I barely recognize the girl looking back at me. Who is she? Where did I go? I feel like I’m floating far from the girl I used to be.
At least my outer self feels familiar again. My white skinny jeans, tank top, and wedges fit better than they did back in May. I reapply my lip gloss, trying to smooth myself into someone I can believe in. I’m making it, I think. I’m back.
But the more I look, the more I realize how far apart my outer self and inner self are. My body feels fragile, my energy drained, but I push it all aside. The Sarah-Frances the world sees is skinny, polished, and seemingly thriving—a perfect, delicate facade that shields the storm beneath.
I enjoy the evening, dancing with friends and hopping from bar to bar, feeling carefree. But when the night quiets down and I’m alone with my thoughts, I can’t help but wonder: Can I keep this up forever?
I’ve convinced myself that my worth is tethered to being desirable, and as the frat guys have made all too clear, “No one wants a fat girl.”
I’m terrified that without being skinny, without being beautiful, I am nothing.
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So hooked to this story. So painfully relatable. Thank you for sharing <3
😔