When I was 13, like many young women, I developed an eating disorder and body dysmorphia. At 16, I started mountaineering, which was a profound catalyst for change—I learned that food was fuel and that my body could do so much more than simply look good. I got really excited about building strength and fitness. By my mid-twenties, I would say I had recovered. I dealt with fluctuations in my weight and appearance without spiraling, lived a balanced, active lifestyle, and ate what I wanted without guilt or shame.
I’m 30 now, and I recently visited an old, very close friend from childhood who shared my adolescent despair and unhealthy eating patterns. I stayed at her house, and noticed she hardly had any food—just some tofu, greens, and fixings for light smoothies. No bread, no cheese or milk, no snacks. I listened to her talk about her eating habits—how she’d skip dinner if she knew she was going to drink a lot that evening, or that she doesn’t keep jam in the house because she’ll eat it all. (Isn’t that the point?) She told me that she knows she has to sacrifice certain foods to maintain a body that she is happy with, and that she’s at peace with that. At the time, I thought Wow. She’s still in it—this disordered relationship with food and her body. Thank god I grew out of it.
Then, I looked at pictures of us on the beach from that weekend, and noticed my frame dwarfing hers. I came home from the trip triggered, questioning whether I needed to go on a diet, reevaluate my habits, or even get my hands on some Ozempic. Things I never think about. I want to be super clear: I love this woman and have an incredible time with her. She never commented on my body or what I ate. And she never would. But in her judgment of herself, I started to hear criticism of my own habits and appearance, too. After a few weeks, the ship righted itself, and I felt, once again, at peace with myself and what I ate.
We’re now planning a river trip together, where we’ll be sharing all of our snacks and meals. How can I avoid falling into the same old, defeating thoughts when I’m with her? Should I talk to her? I don’t even really know what I’d say, and definitely don’t want to police her behavior. If I don’t talk to her, what can I do to protect my own mental health and body image during our time together?
Versions of this letter could have been written by so many women I know—including myself. This may be a tricky situation, but it’s also a testament to your hard work toward body acceptance, and how incredibly far you’ve come.
Recently I had an interaction with a close friend—a woman in her thirties—that reminds me a bit of your situation. We were at the beach, and she had recently ordered a new swimsuit. When she pulled it on, it was uncomfortably tight. “I ordered the same size I wore in high school,” she said, tugging the fabric down over her hips, which are objectively skinny and much smaller than mine. “I guess I should lose a few pounds.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just laughed. We went swimming. But I kept wondering what I should have said. I could have focused on praise, encouragement—“you look great!”—but wouldn’t that reinforce the idea that a slightly bigger body is bad? I could have said something neutral: “Bodies change.” I could have taken a cue from my experience training dogs (to discourage a behavior, replace it with an incompatible one) and ignored the statement completely before changing the subject: “Look over there. A boat!”
Here’s the kicker: my daughter was with us, and I want her to have a healthy relationship with her body. I hope she’ll never experience the turmoil that so many women still carry. Luckily she’s a baby, so I doubt she processed our conversation. She was too busy eating sand. But what if she’d been older? Three, eight, sixteen? What would I say then—to my friend, and to her? And if I could figure out the right message to give my daughter, wouldn’t that be the right message for myself, too?
For the sake of this column, I took what felt like a risk, and called my swimsuit-wearing friend to ask for her perspective on the interaction. She didn’t remember it at all. But she remembered something else.
“I was in the kitchen with you and your husband,” she said, “and we’d just eaten sourdough bread that he baked. I was thinking about how carbs make you gain weight, and I said something like, ‘What’s this going to do to my gym goals?’ Without hesitating, he responded, ‘What goals? Getting stronger? More endurance?’ It was so pure. It helped me catch myself. I’ve always thought I don’t have a lot of diet culture internalized, but there I was, trafficking in this culture of diet glorification.”
Even among my most feminist friends, admitting to troubled body image can feel like the last taboo. Women talk about body dysmorphia or disordered eating in the past tense, but stay tight-lipped on current struggles, even when they’re outwardly obvious to folks who’ve been through it themselves. Part of this dynamic, I think, is generational. Millennials came of age during the extreme diet culture of the nineties and 2000s, then matured—and at least tried to deal with our shit—as the body positivity movement rose in public consciousness. We were taught that our bodies were bad—and then that feeling bad about them is bad, too. We’re ashamed of the fact that we’re still ashamed.
We were taught that our bodies were bad—and then that feeling bad about them is bad, too. We’re ashamed of the fact that we’re still ashamed.
So I understand your hesitation to talk to your friend directly, even if you can comfortably talk about almost anything else. Commenting on body image issues can feel almost like a moral indictment—and anyway, what’s she going to do? Get over them in time for your trip?
You’re better off risking honesty about yourself, and confiding in your friend about your challenges, rather than confronting her about her own. You could frame the conversation in terms of asking for her support. “Hey, can you help me with something? I’ve had some body image stuff come up lately, and I’m trying to really focus on accepting myself and having a healthy relationship with food. I think my goal on the river trip is to just be in the moment, and not think about weight at all. If you notice me talking about weight, or being self-critical, could you call me out on it?”
This is basically the truth, and it’s a gentle way to tell your friend that diet comments can be triggering to you. It might also present an opportunity for her to bring up her own struggles—or at the very least, to know that if she does want to talk about them someday, you’re someone who would listen.
In practical terms, make sure that when you pack for the trip, you’re bringing a swimsuit and clothes that fit perfectly and make you feel confident. (If you don’t have any, buy some! Clothes that help you feel good about your body are genuinely important.) I also think it’s a good idea to reach out to another friend—someone who’s not coming along—and ask her to be your support system. Let her know what’s going on, so she can check in with you after you get back. That way, if you end up feeling worse about yourself, she can help to remind you that this, too, shall pass.
And if those bad feelings come back, they will pass, even if it takes a while to get through them. You’ve already worked so hard to love your body and develop a healthy attitude toward food. That work is never wasted, even when you face setbacks. In fact, when you have negative thoughts about yourself and correct them, you’re not failing; you’re making your coping skills even stronger. Your body is strong as heck, and your mind is, too.
If you or a loved one is struggling with an eating disorder, call the National Alliance for Eating Disorders Helpline at +1 (866) 662-1235 for support, resources, and treatment options. Visit for more information.
Blair Braverman writes ϳԹ’s Tough Love column. She has previously written about how to develop more body confidence.