“Mom, you’re not perfect, you know!”
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that from my children, I’d probably have enough to hire someone to help me get dressed in the morning. As much as I want to defend myself, I can’t deny that those words resonate deeply.
On October 20, 2016, I finally gathered the courage to share a secret I had kept for a decade, not just from myself and my husband, but also from my two sons, who were 12 and 15 at the time. The weight of my confession felt overwhelming, and I was filled with a sense of dread that made my heart race and palms sweat. The person I was about to share my truth with? My own kids.
My therapist, Lisa, urged me to be open with my boys, reminding me that I was dealing with an illness rather than a personal failing. Even so, I remained doubtful that teenagers would grasp that concept. After all, I had spent years making sure my children felt secure and happy; revealing my struggle with a potentially life-threatening disorder felt like it could shatter that illusion.
In Lisa’s office, my youngest son, Ethan, leaned against me on the couch, seemingly aware that something significant was about to unfold. Meanwhile, my oldest, Ryan, sat across from me, arms crossed and sporting the classic teenage glare. Clearly, this therapy session was cutting into his precious free time.
“I need to tell you both something important,” I started, still hesitant about saying the word “anorexia.” It struck me that this moment would confirm their suspicions: I wasn’t perfect, and I didn’t have all the answers. “I’m going into treatment for an eating disorder, specifically anorexia nervosa.”
The room fell silent. Ethan’s head dropped onto my shoulder, while Ryan’s expression turned from disbelief to anger. “Mom, you can’t have anorexia! That’s something only teenage girls deal with. How could this happen?” His response took me by surprise, and even Lisa flinched at the intensity of his reaction. His words mirrored my own internal judgment: How could I, who always seemed to have it all figured out, end up here?
I could have easily kept my struggles hidden from my boys, pretending that everything was fine. At their age, with social media and friends taking up most of their focus, they might not have even noticed my increased absences for outpatient treatment. But I chose vulnerability instead. I decided to share my reality, despite my instincts telling me to shield them from the harsh truths of life.
As a parent, I’ve always aimed to protect my children from the challenges of adulthood, whether it be the complexities of marriage, finances, or personal struggles. Yet, I realized that by hiding my battle with anorexia, I wasn’t truly safeguarding them. Ryan’s outburst was not just frustration; it was a manifestation of his fears. Despite my attempts to maintain an image of normalcy, my children had sensed something was amiss. They could pick up on my struggles, even when I thought I was shielding them from it.
The path to recovery has been challenging for all of us, but sharing my journey with my kids has ultimately transformed me into a better parent. They have witnessed firsthand that life is filled with unexpected challenges, and there’s no shame in seeking help when it’s needed.
Now, I’m happily in recovery and navigating the complexities of raising my boys during their teenage years—a time when societal pressures about appearance and achievement are at their peak. In a world where social media often portrays a perfect life, my experiences have allowed me to provide them with a more realistic perspective and a safe space to express their feelings.
I’m thankful I took the leap to be honest, setting aside my belief that a good parent must know everything. My hope is that this experience has taught my children that imperfections are part of being human, and that’s completely okay.
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In summary, opening up to my children about my eating disorder was a terrifying but ultimately liberating experience. It helped foster a deeper understanding of life’s complexities and the importance of seeking help.
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