We Exist: Latinas in Eating Disorder Recovery
I learned about eating disorders through a movie in my tenth-grade health class. I don’t remember the title or plot specifics. I likely don’t recall much about the movie because I had a limited emotional connection to the protagonist. Yes, I felt sad that this high school student spiraled into a fatal eating disorder, but I could not relate to her. She was white and surrounded by white friends in an idyllic setting. I concluded after class that eating disorders don’t apply to girls like me; it was a white girl issue that doesn’t happen to Latinas. Besides, I loved eating arroz con frijoles, guata, and, llapingachos.
I have compassion for fifteen-year-old Priscilla’s ignorance. She hadn’t seen Black and Brown representation in eating disorder recovery spaces yet. The media centered affluent white women, and the people in her life who were living with eating disorders were all white girls.
I did not realize how misinformed I was about eating disorders until I developed one myself.
In college, my relationship with food and exercise became obsessive and overwhelming. During this period of my life, each day revolved around eating rituals, caloric obsessions, and mandatory exercise. My eating disorder did not allow me to experience rest, self-acceptance, or softness. It demanded all of my attention and left no room for authenticity or wellness. Anorexia is defined by deprivation. Accordingly, I deprived myself into a state of numbness.
I was determined to validate the sacrifices of my refugee father and immigrant mother through academic excellence. Consequently, I battled disordered eating in silence for all three years of law school. I had unknowingly swapped my previous substance abuse disorder for eating disorders.
The link between eating disorders and substance use is well documented. An estimated 36.8% of those living with bulimia are diagnosed with substance use disorder. Eating disorders and substance use disorder are both often maladaptive coping mechanisms. In my case, they stemmed from the same source: childhood trauma. I met several risk factors for developing these mental health conditions as a survivor of child sexual abuse (CSA). Researchers estimate that 30% of those coping with an eating disorder are survivors of CSA, and according to the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey, one in three Latinas and one in four Latinos reported experiencing sexual violence.
I channeled my intense feelings of powerlessness into my eating disorder. I felt a false control over my life by manipulating my caloric intake and weight. This addictive behavior wreaked havoc on my body in the form of osteopenia, hair loss, amenorrhea, orthostatic hypotension, brittle nails, arrhythmia, and moodiness.
The perceived power I chased through my eating disorder resulted in a very disordered life. At times I was a reserved student attending Bible study. At other times, I was partying recklessly and struggling with eating disorder symptoms privately.
Eventually, I paid heed to my parents' and doctor's concerns. I entered an eating disorder treatment center at the end of 2013. Per program requirements, I completed invasive and uncomfortable therapy sessions, kept a supervised food journal, and complied with strict rules.
Just like in the health class movie, I saw white women left and right when I was in treatment. I did not see myself among the patients or staff. Furthermore, some of the concepts I learned at the treatment center contradicted many of the cultural scripts I grew up with. For example, taking up little space and being of constant service to others are not sustainable ways of living. Each of us deserves to prioritize our self-care and wellness. Nonetheless, I am grateful I completed the program and recognize it as a privilege few people from my community can access.
The woman I am today resulted from intentional learning and unlearning. I had to revisit younger parts of myself that were confused, fearful, and wounded.
I am not the only sexual abuse survivor in my family or the only one with an eating disorder. Yet, I spent years feeling alone in my suffering when I was one of many due to a cultural expectation that “la ropa sucia se lava en casa” (“don't air your dirty laundry in public”).
Through my work today as a trauma-informed life coach and keynote speaker, I encourage other Latinx people to actively use their voices to advocate for mental health care, defend loved ones from abuse, define boundaries with others, or take similarly empowering action.
We must normalize speaking about these taboo topics in Latinx households because it could be a matter of life or death for those suffering in silence.
Shaming and silencing only enable unhealthy behaviors and relationships. A lack of representation coupled with systemic barriers to treatment impedes and, in some cases, blocks many historically underrepresented communities from accessing recovery resources. This is an incredibly unjust reality that needs to change. Any behavior fueled by emotional instability, underlying mental illness, and trauma has a high likelihood of ending in tragedy without professional intervention.
Culturally responsive education and representation in eating disorder recovery spaces save lives. I have become the advocate that a younger version of myself needed to see in the media. I can now explain eating disorders accurately to fifteen-year-old Priscilla, hold space for her, and treat her with the compassion she needed all along.
