Food Addicts In Recovery Anonymous

I was a typical-sized kid, but I never felt like it. Even as a child, my thoughts about food and my body were relentless. For years, I searched for relief. I tried diets, bulimia, over-exercising, and eventually gastric sleeve surgery. Just a few hours after I got home from the surgery,  I was uncontrollably chewing food and spitting it out for fear of bursting my stitches, devastated that I couldn’t stop.  While I was raising my children, my food addiction stole precious moments from my family. My days were spent isolated in my car with food, consumed with negative self-talk. I lived with constant shame and self-loathing. When I first came to Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA), I found abstinence and hope. But my addict mind convinced me to go back to the food. I knew I wanted to be abstinent, but I just couldn’t do it until I was rendered yet more desperate. When I finally returned to FA, I came back with willingness. I was welcomed with kindness and the simple words, "We got you." For the first time, I understood that I wasn't just treating my food or my weight; I was recovering from an illness of the mind, body, and spirit. Today, with nearly nine years of continuous abstinence and more than 100 pounds released, I've raised my children in recovery, walked through divorce, sold and bought a home, grown personally and professionally, and learned to face life's challenges without turning to food. FA taught me the difference between feelings and facts, how to ask for help, and, perhaps for the first time, how to love myself.

I found Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA) at 48, after dieting my way up to 360 pounds. Today, I have maintained a 200+ pound loss for over 18 years. My weight struggles began in childhood. In third grade, my worried parents put me on diet pills; by fourth grade, I weighed 157 pounds. My mom, who was the county school nurse, told me I was the largest kid in the entire school district. Food was restricted at home, so I stole money to buy snacks, growing bigger as my weight became my whole identity among my siblings. Nothing worked – not the pills, not commercial diet plans, not a trip to the doctor, where I was told I was "morbidly obese.” As a young person, I took that to mean I was a “morbid beast.” College brought more isolation – eating all morning in bed, late-night vending machine runs, failing grades. On planes, I had to pretend the seat belt was fastened, and I once rode an upside-down roller coaster without the restraint fully secured because I was too ashamed to admit it wouldn't fit around me. I convinced myself I'd be single forever (though I later found a wonderful husband). Everything changed when, at 295 pounds, I had a daughter and realized she deserved a living mother. I found FA, terrified but willing to do whatever it took. My first 24 hours without flour or sugar became another, then another. I found freedom I'd never known, with quiet in my head, peace in my life, and real recovery at last.

I was born into poverty in the Jim Crow South, the oldest of five children, in a home marked by food insecurity and violence. As I grew older, flour and sugar products became comfort, companionship, and protection from trauma, loss, and pain. My father lived with schizophrenia and spent much of my childhood institutionalized. My mother could not provide emotional safety, and I learned to stay silent and hide my pain, even as I was bullied and struggled in school. I entered adulthood already shaped by secrecy and deprivation. After high school, I became pregnant, started my first job, and finally had unlimited access to food. At 22, I married a gambling womanizer whom I thought I could change, and we had two more children before the marriage ended. Tragedy compounded tragedy: my young, seven-year-old daughter was killed by a car, my ex-husband died by suicide months later, and I simply wasn't emotionally available to my surviving children. By the time I reached my forties, my eating was out of control. I cycled through diets, compulsive exercise, pills, and laxatives, always ending up where I started.  The turning point came when I was diagnosed as prediabetic, and I could no longer pretend that food wasn’t harming me. I had served as a hospital chaplain and had seen amputations because of diabetes; I didn’t want that to be my story. When I walked into my first Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA) meeting, I knew I’d found where I belonged. Now, as an octogenarian and grief counselor, I know recovery is about far more than food. It is about spiritual healing, rigorous honesty, accepting help, and discovering the freedom of surrender. Recovery has given me clarity, dignity, and peace. Today, I no longer use food to numb out or escape. I live one day at a time, supported by the FA program, a Higher Power, and a community that holds me accountable with grace.  

At 37 years old, I weighed more than 200 pounds and felt trapped in a cycle I couldn’t explain or escape. I had tried countless times to control my eating, but every attempt ended with shame, anxiety, and another promise to start over tomorrow. Food was my solution whenever I felt overwhelmed by stress, perfectionism, or fear. From sneaking sugary lunches as a teenager to enduring electroconvulsive therapy for severe depression, from the terrifying premature birth of my daughter to the loneliness of early motherhood, I kept turning to food, convinced I simply lacked willpower. When a friend invited me to a meeting of Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA), I resisted. I could not imagine a life without addictive eating. But desperation opened the door to willingness, and one measured meal at a time, one day at a time, I discovered recovery.  More than two decades later, I have built a meaningful career and found a purpose I never expected: helping others recover. Perhaps the most moving realization is that my daughter, now an adult, has never known the mother who ate addictively – only the one who found freedom. My experience of addiction, grace, and transformation in FA has taught me that recovery doesn't just change what’s on your plate – it changes your whole life.

I didn’t look like someone who had a problem with food. I wasn’t overweight, but I was obsessed. For me, this was largely a mental disease.  As a kid, I went straight for the desserts. As a teenager, I felt socially uncomfortable. While other kids were out together, I was home alone eating. In college, I’d binge on a big sugary breakfast and then crash, falling asleep drooling on my books. Just before graduation, I learned about bulimia, and within three weeks, I began bingeing and purging in secret. I was ashamed, exhausted, and stuck in a cycle I couldn’t stop.  In my first Twelve Step program, I stopped purging—but I kept bingeing on sugar and flour. I lived with a constant knot in my stomach. I didn’t understand it then, but it was anxiety. By the time I found Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA), I was irritable, negative, and always looking for someone to blame. I’d show up to meetings in a bad mood, not wanting to be there. But I kept coming back. I made the phone calls. I practiced gratitude, even when I didn’t feel it. Slowly, things began to shift. Even my kids noticed – when I was off, they’d say, “Mommy, you need a meeting.”  I’m so grateful to be abstinent through FA. One day at a time, I am free from obsession. My relationships are stronger, my marriage is better, and I’m no longer consumed by my weight or my size. Today, I have peace – and a life beyond anything food ever gave me.