National Eating Disorder Awareness Week: Guest Interview

This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness week, which is a national campaign to raise awareness about eating disorders, challenge stigma, and provide hope and support to all impacted.  I had the privilege of interviewing Savanna Stone, a clinician at Bright Path Behavioral Health, who brings perspective both as someone with lived experience of an eating disorder and as a provider treating them.  She shared powerful insight into her journey and professional work, and I hope you find her reflections as meaningful as I did.

When you first began struggling with your eating disorder, what did it feel like internally that others may not have seen from the outside?  What did it feel like to receive a diagnosis and realize what you were going through was being seen?
When I first began struggling with my eating disorder, I didn’t realize that’s what it was. I truly believed I was just being “healthy,” like the complete and ideal picture of health. But it wasn’t health. It was something that slowly got taken way too far and almost made me lose my life.

When I was in the depths of it, it quite literally consumed me. It was all I could think about. From the outside, I still walked around with a smile on my face. I functioned. I showed up. But internally, I was exhausted. My mind was constantly preoccupied with food, calories, movement, and the number on the scale (or the number I deeply hoped to see, even though it never was “enough”). It was deeply consuming.

It cost me friendships and strained relationships with my family. It damaged trust. I began to isolate because the only thing I felt I could truly rely on was myself and my eating disorder. As painful as it was, it also felt safe. It brought a distorted sense of comfort and control, even though it was simultaneously creating immense pain, guilt, and shame.

When I finally received a diagnosis, I felt scared and, honestly, somewhat in denial — even though it was visible that I was struggling. I didn’t want anyone to know. Eating disorders thrive in secrecy. Even when it was evident to others that something was wrong, I felt incredibly protective over it.

At the same time, there was also relief. There was finally a name for what I was experiencing. It meant that others could see I was truly struggling. That part felt validating. And yet, it was complicated. I felt so much shame and secrecy, but I also deeply wanted support. That internal push-and-pull is something many people don’t talk about.

Looking back, what do you wish people understood about eating disorders that they often get wrong?
There are a couple of things people almost always get wrong about eating disorders. The first is the belief that you have to be “skinny” to have one. That is so far from the truth.

Yes, some people may fit the stereotypical image society associates with anorexia. But that is not the majority of people struggling. There’s atypical anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, ARFID, and many other presentations. Not everyone reaches what is considered an “extremely low” weight, and that can be due to genetics, medical factors, body diversity, or countless other reasons. That does not make their eating disorder any less valid, less serious, or less life-threatening.

I sometimes feel complicated talking about this because I was someone who fit that stereotypical image. In some ways, that makes me feel strange advocating for the fact that eating disorders don’t always look like that. But that discomfort speaks to something important, the dangerous “not sick enough” narrative that so many people with eating disorders carry. That belief keeps people silent. It keeps people from seeking help. And it is incredibly harmful.

Eating disorders occur across all body types, races, ethnicities, genders, and cultures. They do not discriminate. Often, the person you would never expect to struggle is the one fighting the loudest battle behind closed doors, trapped in their thoughts and consumed internally.

Another major misconception is that eating disorders are “just about food.” They are not. Food is the symptom. Underneath it is a complicated mix of control, safety, identity, fear, perfectionism, trauma, or a need to cope.

As strange as it sounds, an eating disorder can feel like a safety blanket. It can create a distorted sense of control and comfort, even while it is simultaneously life-threatening and deeply painful. That contradiction is hard for people to understand unless they’ve lived it.

It’s also important to remember that everyone’s experience looks different. One person’s “safe food” might be another person’s “fear food”. The behaviors, the rules, the rituals… they vary widely. That’s why reducing eating disorders to “just eat” or “just stop dieting” misses the depth of what’s really happening.

As both someone with lived experience and a clinician, how have you balanced your own personal growth and recovery with the responsibility of caring for clients?
Having lived through something that caused so much pain, I believe it’s incredibly important to make sure you are in a stable, grounded place before working with individuals whose struggles might bring up something raw, real, and personal for you. Being strong and confident in my recovery allows me to show up as a more present, well-rounded clinician. It also protects both my clients and me. Recovery has to come first. If I’m not taking care of myself, I can’t ethically care for others.

Eating disorders can become deeply ingrained coping mechanisms, and when you’ve relied on something for so long, it can be easy to slip back into old patterns if you’re not intentional. That’s why ongoing self-awareness, supervision, and accountability are so important for me. I am mindful of my own triggers and boundaries, and I make sure I’m processing my reactions outside of the therapy room, never inside of it.

At the same time, my lived experience allows me to connect with clients in a deeply meaningful way. When someone sits across from me feeling ashamed, out of control, or consumed by their thoughts about food or their body, I don’t just understand it conceptually; I understand the nuance of it. I know how layered it can be. That perspective helps me normalize their experience without minimizing it.

It also helps me notice subtleties like certain language, rigid patterns, or seemingly small behaviors that might otherwise go overlooked. Not because I assume, but because I’ve lived in that mindset before. Ultimately, I see my lived experience not as something that defines my work, but as something that has deepened my empathy, sharpened my clinical awareness, and strengthened my commitment to practicing ethically and intentionally.

What were some early signs that indicated you needed more support?
This question is tricky because of the “not sick enough” narrative that so many people with eating disorders struggle with. When I was deep in it, I never believed I was sick enough or deserving of additional support. I minimized everything. I told myself other people had it worse.
But some moments broke through that denial.

I remember walking back from the pool to the apartment where I lived with my mom and sister. I had to stop and lean on some random person’s car in the parking lot because I genuinely felt like I was going to die. That moment scared me. Not because I suddenly realized I had a problem, but because deep down, I did not want to die. I just didn’t like myself. Those are two very different things. And recognizing that difference was important.

Another moment that stayed with me was when my mom told me she was afraid to wake me up in the mornings because she was scared I wouldn’t be breathing anymore. Hearing that shifted something in me. Eating disorders can feel very internal and self-focused, but that was the moment I realized the impact extended far beyond me.

Those experiences made it harder to continue pretending everything was fine. Even though the “not sick enough” voice was still loud, there was a growing awareness that I needed help, and that needing help didn’t mean I had failed. It meant my body and the people who loved me were signaling that something wasn’t sustainable.

Recovery is often described as nonlinear. What has that looked like for you in real life?
This is a tough one to reflect on and try to explain in a way that makes sense because recovery is truly not linear. When I came home from residential treatment, I thought the hardest part was behind me, but man, was I wrong. Before treatment, my eating disorder was my quiet reality. After intensive treatment, it was out in the open. I wasn’t in denial anymore. Everyone knew. I knew. My treatment team knew. There was no hiding it.

Physically, I felt stronger. But mentally and emotionally, things were still incredibly raw. I was deeply uncomfortable with the person I saw in the mirror. Recovery required me to challenge things that felt terrifying at the time, like letting go of control, sitting with discomfort, and learning to tolerate seeing myself without trying to “fix” anything.

Some days felt empowering. I felt confident, grounded, and hopeful. Other days were heavy and overwhelming, filled with body image distress and intrusive thoughts. That’s something people don’t talk about enough. Even after physical restoration, the mental work can intensify. There’s this misconception that once someone reaches a “healthy” weight, everything is resolved. For me, that was when the deeper work truly began.

I had to pause certain habits, including exercise, to rebuild my relationship with movement in a healthier way. I had to be mindful of patterns that had become automatic. That mindfulness was exhausting at times and, honestly, frustrating. It felt unfair that I had to think so intentionally about things that seemed effortless for others. But it was necessary.

There were moments in early college when I believed I was fully free from my eating disorder, only to realize I still had so much work to do. Healing wasn’t a straight line. It required time, humility, accountability, and a willingness to be honest with myself.

And support made all the difference. Having people who could lovingly challenge me. People I could call and say, “I’m struggling today.” People who noticed when old patterns tried to sneak back in. Recovery is not polished or pretty. It is messy and vulnerable and deeply uncomfortable at times. But it is absolutely worth it. The freedom I feel now was built slowly, intentionally, and with a lot of courage.

How has your experience shaped the way you show up for clients who are struggling with food, body image, or control?
My experience has deeply shaped the way I show up for clients. I carry a tremendous amount of empathy and grace for individuals who are struggling with food, body image, or control. That empathy isn’t theoretical, it’s embodied. But how I express that understanding depends on the client.

I’m very mindful about self-disclosure. I know it can be powerful, but it can also be tricky. So often, I try to communicate understanding without centering myself. When these topics come up, I’m intentional about my tone, my body language, my eye contact…  even the way I physically hold space in the room. I want clients to feel that they are not alone, even if I never explicitly say, “I’ve been there.”

Eating disorders and body image struggles carry so much guilt and shame. They can make someone feel deeply isolated, even when they have strong support systems. I try to create a space where that shame softens, where clients feel seen rather than judged. In some instances, thoughtful and boundaried self-disclosure can be helpful. But more often, it’s about conveying safety and attunement without making the session about me.

Because I work with teens, this also extends to how I educate parents. I’m intentional about helping caregivers understand that it’s not “just about food.” It’s not about defiance or attention-seeking. It’s not something to punish or shame. It requires compassion, consistency, and informed support.

I also balance empathy with accountability. If I notice a client avoiding something or engaging in behaviors that are clearly maladaptive, I will gently but directly address it. Sometimes I use light humor, that’s part of my style, but always in a way that maintains dignity and support. Clients deserve honesty, and they also deserve to feel safe receiving it.

A big part of my work focuses on rebuilding connection, especially connection to the body. Eating disorders often create profound disconnection. Even in trauma work or anxiety treatment, I emphasize grounding, mindfulness, and the mind–body relationship. Learning to feel safe inside your own body again is powerful work.

Ultimately, my lived experience doesn’t define my therapeutic approach, but it absolutely informs it. It deepened my empathy, strengthened my boundaries, and reinforced my commitment to practicing with both compassion and clarity.

What are some subtle or less-discussed forms of disordered eating that you think deserve more awareness?
Social media continues to play a massive role in subtle and normalized forms of disordered eating. There is still a persistent message that you have to be thin to be attractive, and that “clean eating” or eating very small portions is somehow virtuous. Even when we intellectually know that’s not healthy, the messaging is constant.

For a while, it felt like we were making real progress. The body positivity movement created space for diversity in size, shape, and representation. It was beautiful to see different bodies reflected in media. But recently, I’ve noticed old themes quietly resurfacing. It’s disguised as “wellness,” “discipline,” or “self-optimization.” On platforms like TikTok, especially, restrictive behaviors and rigid food rules are often reframed as healthy lifestyle choices.

One trend that deserves particular attention are the “What I Eat In a Day” videos. On the surface, these videos may seem harmless or even inspiring. But they often reinforce comparison, portion monitoring, and subtle moralizing of food. They can quietly fuel the idea that there is a “right” way to eat, and that our bodies should reflect it. Paired with body checking, which is frequently embedded in these videos through outfit angles, waist shots, or mirror poses, the impact can be especially triggering. The combination of food comparison and visual body comparison can intensify shame and self-scrutiny.

Body checking itself is another under-discussed behavior. It shows up constantly on social media, where certain poses, outfit checks, and mirror angles are normalized. Outside of social media, it can look like repeatedly checking mirrors, adjusting clothing to assess shape, or frequently examining specific body parts. These behaviors are often brushed off as harmless habits, but they can signal deeper distress and preoccupation.

The tricky part is that many of these behaviors are praised. They’re labeled as discipline, confidence, or self-improvement. But when someone’s thoughts become consumed by food rules, body comparison, or constant self-monitoring, that’s worth paying attention to.

What role did community, relationships, or stigma play in either deepening or healing your struggle?
Community and relationships played a complicated role in both deepening and healing my struggle.

When I was younger and immersed in environments like dance, I remember feeling incredibly frustrated when peers would casually talk about skipping meals, “forgetting” to eat, or not being able to eat before practice. Those conversations were often normalized, even joked about. For me, they were triggering. I compared constantly. I found myself wondering whether those comments were coming from pride or from ignorance, and either way, they intensified my internal battle.

In early recovery, especially, those dynamics fueled frustration and negative thoughts. It highlighted how socially acceptable certain disordered behaviors can be, particularly in performance-driven spaces. Stigma doesn’t always look like overt criticism. Sometimes it looks like normalization. And that normalization can quietly deepen shame and comparison.

At the same time, safe relationships were the most powerful healing factor in my recovery.

My fiancé has been with me since the early days of my healing journey. He became someone who could sit with me in the hard moments. Someone who gently challenged fear-based thoughts, helped me approach difficult situations with food in a lighter way, and distracted me when body image distress felt overwhelming. He created space for me to process openly without judgment.

Both my mom and my sister have always been there for me in a very raw and honest way. They understand the nuances of my triggers and can often anticipate situations that might be difficult for me. They stand up for me when needed and have consistently been people I feel completely safe with.

They offer accountability wrapped in unconditional positive regard. They have never shamed me for struggling, only supported me through it.

These three people have been deeply influential in my recovery and continue to be the people I feel safest with. The ones I can tell anything to. Recovery requires safe people. People who can love you at your lowest. People who can challenge you without shaming you. People who can hold hope for you when you can’t hold it for yourself.

Community can deepen an eating disorder when it normalizes harmful behaviors, but it can also be the very thing that helps someone heal.

During Eating Disorder Awareness Week, what message feels most important for people currently struggling to hear?
We so often hear messages like, “It will get better”,  “Just love yourself”, “You look fine now”, or “Just eat, it’s not that hard.” But when you’re in it, those phrases can feel so hollow and make you feel even more alone.

Healing isn’t built on empty phrases. It’s built on honesty. Real, raw honesty.

If you are currently struggling, I want you to know this… recovery takes time. It takes commitment. It takes hard work. There will be days when you question whether it’s worth it. There will be days when it feels exhausting and unfair. There will be days when you feel like nothing is ever going to get better.

But if you commit to it, truly commit, recovery can become one of the most beautiful and transformative things you will ever experience. It deepens your appreciation for the world, for yourself, and for the people around you. It gives you freedom in ways you may not even realize you’re missing right now.
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It’s hard. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not linear.
But it is worth it.
And you are not “not sick enough.” You are deserving of help exactly as you are.

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