Who Am I Without My ED? Control, Identity, Purpose and Self-Assurance.

For many people, an eating disorder doesn’t just feel like something they have. But rather, it feels like something they are.

This blog post explores why this is and how we might disentangle that.

When we consider Lao Tzu’s sentiment — that our thoughts shape our words, our actions, our habits, and thereby our character — it is understandable that mental illnesses seem to become something we embody. An eating disorder often doesn't feel that it merely exists alongside us; it governs, or at very least steers, how we think, how we speak to ourselves internally, how we measure our worth, how we take up space, and how we fill our days behaviourally.

And even beyond the dark depths of eating disorder authority, the label of being ‘in recovery’ can often become an inviting new identity perch, too. It occupies a tenuous yet seemingly protective space between illness and health — non-committal and apparently transient. Although, as many of you will recognise, what initially appears to be an ephemeral phase can almost imperceptibly stretch into years of suspended middle ground.

It is for this reason that the first thing that I want to bring to this discussion is some reassurance: if you have lived with an eating disorder for a while, it makes sense if imagining life without it feels odd, confusing, or even threatening. If your eating disorder has felt like something you are “good at”, provided purpose, structure, an emotional outlet, or equipped you with certain seemingly advantageous traits, the fear of its absence makes you human — not weak. Questions about what lies beyond recovery are inevitable and we must meet these with sympathy rather than ire. Being frightened of the unknown doesn’t mean you lack desire for healing; it simply means you are afraid of the unknown. Full stop.

I know that this will feel like a fairly inconsequential matter in comparison to the litany of other seemingly more pressing behaviours that you must abstain from, but if you are to heal, you must resist the practice of needlessly condemning yourself for having fear. Almost all of us are haunted by some version of the eating disorder’s persuasion that a void will be left in its wake and there is not a single advantage to adding an extra layer of hostility to this otherwise immensely exhausting process.

Most questions that arise when contemplating the recovered abyss are ones that centre on what one may be good at beyond restricting or moving. And even if this is logically answerable, queries frequently remain about what preferences exist that aren’t ED‑sanctioned; what feels motivating beyond self‑punishing ritual; or what structure life holds when there is autonomy to do as you wish. Likely, inner rumination involves all of the above, coagulated into something that feels like a convoluted mess. It must therefore be appreciated that whilst letting go can sometimes feel powerful and liberating, it can also register as a loss of control and knowability— like stepping off a cliff, unsure if your parachute will open.

In this light, I view that the work of recovery has its foundations in one main thing — cementing a sense of trust within yourself. This is an inner peace that allows you to know that the net you have carefully positioned will be the very thing that catches you, and that you will not allow yourself to free-fall in any circumstances you encounter.

Control-less?

From the eating disorder’s perspective, recovery is often framed as relinquishing regulation, control, and safety. What we must bring our scrutiny to, then, is the depth of regulation, control and safety this way of living truly provided.

How long did the calm last?

How grounding did that control feel?

Was that emotion of safety sincere?

My firmest argument back to my eating disorder was the growing body of evidence that, actually, I was rarely regulated, not truly “in control,” and did not feel deeply safe — ever. In almost every sense, my life just felt profoundly misaligned: I was consistently on edge, and whatever ‘control’ that I did feel was built on withdrawal, rigid regimes, and transient highs. Periodic waves of cognitive dissonance corroborated this, and a truth I tried desperately to bury: this was not the true Han.

And despite my efforts to suppress it, I found myself confronting this truth almost daily.

Someone who is regulated does not panic when offered a chunk of cheese as a sample at a farm shop — nor do they plot to compensate for having it by eating less at a snack later. Someone who is truly “in control” does not feel as though the ground is falling away beneath them when dinner happens thirty minutes earlier than expected. Perhaps it’s not a preference, but anxiety does not raise. Someone who sincerely feels safe within themselves does not use conflict with a family member as justification for self-neglect.

That’s not calm. That is not control. That’s not safety. Not really. Its illness. It is disorder. It’s unrestrained sovereignty over the poor mind and poor vessel that carry you.

I am so clear on relaying this message because I believe the language we use in illness recovery is of pivotal importance to our healing process. You cannot lose calm, control, or safety if you never truly had them. Recovery is not the loss of an idyllic or preferable state — it is the reclamation of agency and trust; the path of self-determination OVER a governance that carries no volition. This journey, though it can feel entirely destabilising, is a return to oneself. Not perhaps to who you were before (vulnerabilities intact) but to a stronger character who is guided by integrity and values; with inner calm, a steady sense of ownership and a permanence of self-trust.

I can safely say that since being fully recovered I have never once looked at someone submerged in disorder and thought they held greater control than someone who wasn’t. I think any recovered person would agree with me: enamorment associated with a display of disordered control fades as you heal and is replaced by a curious radar for the deep suffering we ourselves experienced. With this aptitude to see beneath the mask, we come to see that although the façade may superficially appear polished and that the individual seem to may have ‘everything together’, there is an unsettlement within them; a sort of brittleness. We can sense how the mind slips into chaos when confronted with unfamiliarity; how the appearance of composure collapses when a carefully managed system falters; and how creative, social, and physical engagement with the world has been diminished by the disorder’s ascendancy. ‘Control’ that was perhaps once viewed with reverence is now met with both sorrow for the indiviual, and relief to be beyond it.

Identity-less?

Who we are is woven from various threads; biology, culture, environment, experiences… the list is lengthy. In a moment, I will mention the strong theory that our choices and actions over time form identity too: Identity isn’t just belief; it’s reinforced by behaviour. Repeated actions vote for the person we’re becoming.

But first, I want to express how an eating disorder compromises every one of these aforementioned strands, and how rather than there being some sort of innate lack that recovery unveils, it is the EDs maintenance, and the undernourished state itself, that shrouds us from who we really are.

It must be noted that a state of undernourishment and energy debt — which is often not visibly perceptible — obscure identity by stripping us of our energy, sense of connection, desire for close community and unbridled curiousity. Not having enough food dulls us — for good reason. Vitality is energetically expensive, and thus, switching off taxes to our energy is therefore not only wise, but a necessity. With more nourishment comes space: space to figure things out, space for interest beyond bodies and food, space to discover preference, and to take up room without apology. And, important for some, headspace to engage in therapy. And so, when it feels like the eating disorder is protecting you from being exposed as somebody with “not much to offer”, consider the very highly likelihood that it is the illness and its symptoms that is the very thing dimming your light. It is the behaviours that are required to sustain and outcomes of the illness that therefore require excavating.

I also want to offer you some reassurance that I found very helpful in my recovery: that when you are not ill, or no longer recovering from being ill, you will not be ejected into the world with no sense of self to support you. Every single person who I've observed fully recover sees how the healing process itself equips them with assuredness of who they are, emboldens them with certainty of their values, permits them to set boundaries that feel aligned to them, and provides lived-evidence of their exceptionality. I wonder, perhaps it's impossible for a self-driven process so testing not to.

As I mentioned a little earlier, I strongly believe that language and identity are tightly fused, and therefore, our language use in recovery really matters. This is true even if it’s only subtle, and even if it’s only influential at a subconscious level. The problematic tendency to use ‘anorexic’ or ‘bulimic’ is an obvious one to bring up here, since labelling contributes to collapsing an illness into an identity. In the language centre of our minds (Left Frontal and Left Temporal Lobes), our brains automatically fuse nouns with a sense of permanence. “Anorexic” or “Bulimic” therefore, land like anchored categories one belongs to, not an escapable condition one is experiencing. If you identify as an Eating Disorder, letting it go is going to feel like you are losing your whole Self. Whereas if you identify as somebody having an eating disorder, there is an understated distinction wherein separation is preserved: the person exists first; the illness is secondary. Recovery moves from merely feeling like a loss, to something that could be associated with positive gain, and, space is created for multiple identities to co-exist. You can be somebody 'in recovery' and a creative, a friend, a professional, a parent (etc). Though seemingly moderate in its impact, this particular language shift and others of its kind were pivotal ones for me to make so that the eating disorder felt like something that had visited, and was is allowed to leave.

And finally, to the confronting point about how choices and actions contribute to identity formation.

Most psychological explorations of identity agree that who we are isn’t formed only by what we think or say about ourselves; it’s shaped through what we do, especially what we do repeatedly. Every choice and action, no matter how small, acts like a vote cast for a certain version of self. One moment of self-attendance, one boundary held, one act of rebuttal against the eating disorder’s command accumulates to reinforce the identity of someone who cares for themselves, values their time, or trusts their capacity to grow.

Over time, these patterns matter a great deal. Likely, far more than you think. We don’t become confident, disciplined, or compassionate in a single decisive moment; we become them through accumulation. Behaviour teaches the nervous system and the subconscious who we are long before beliefs catch up. And this is why identity change often feels backward: we must act “as if” first, and meaning follows.

This perspective also assists to soften shame. A single action doesn’t define us — consistency does. When we choose actions aligned with who we want to become, identity shifts naturally, not through force or mere positive thinking, but through lived evidence.

In that sense, identity is less a fixed label and more a living process — something we practice into being day by day. This means, each moment does matter.

Talentless?

A similarly under-discussed topic in the recovery space  — one somewhat related to identity  — is not just who you are without an eating disorder, but the quieter fear of who you might become instead.

I have interacted with many people who are deeply afraid that recovery will render them something terrible; something the opposite of special; somebody without a space: unremarkable, unexceptional, average.

This fear subtly suggests that the 'ability' to restrict, to over-exercise, to endure self-neglect is admirable and confers a kind of unique status. We can only deduce, therefore, that this means that one who lives a life of abundance — who treats themself well — is, by comparison, deplorable.

But the uncomfortable truth is this: there are many, many people in this world who are unwell with eating disorders, or living in dysfunctional relationships with food. Every single one of them is “good” at self-abandonment and yet not one of them will receive a prize at the end of their life for it. These behaviours are not evidence of discipline, strength, or superiority; they are adaptations to deep pain and manifestations of suffering being taken out on oneself.

We must be truthful in our admittance that any internal admiration you might feel for “doing restriction well”, the dopamine hit of being known as the fit/thin/productive one, or the external validation of being the healthy colleague will always be fragile and short-lived. These 'qualities' pale in comparison to the depth of respect — both from yourself and others — that comes from doing something genuinely soul-lifting, something that is life-affirming rather than life-shrinking, and something that does not carry heavily aching dissonance.

I know that the eating disorder makes this seem doubtful, but recovering from your eating disorder — which is far harder work than sustaining it — restores the physical and mental capacity required to glow in ways that are actually aligned with who you are. It creates room for real traits and talents to surface: sensitivity that becomes deep empathy, attentiveness that becomes profound care, thoughtfulness that makes someone feel truly seen. These are not by-products of illness; they are human qualities that emerge when survival is no longer consuming all available energy.

And these traits — not the ability to disappear, endure, or self-erase — are the kinds of qualities that make a life feel meaningful, connective, and sincerely extraordinary.

Purposeless?

So, without illness, why are you here?

Perhaps the most useful place to begin is by releasing the belief that life requires a single, definitive purpose in the first place.

Gogol's wonderful quote: 'the human obsession with purpose is merely a distraction from the absurdity of existence’  epitomises my feelings towards this modern (and possibly quite Western) imperative to find deeper meaning: it is a distraction from and interference to presence.

But, once again, we can meet this predilection for monotonicity with understanding and sympathy. Linearity feels safer because a singular purpose avoids openness and impermanence.

And yet, when we do entertain the prospect that we are perhaps not supposed to uncover one perfect calling and stick to it forever, there is a certain softening of pressure. An insistence to choose one path neglects the transience of our human experience: our evolution of character, of interests and of ability. And so, giving ourselves the permission to live a life that lacks clarity, allows phases, and permits detours is part of our freedom. This time was not at all wasted. It was part of our human experience.

In this way, perhaps instead of asking ‘what should/would I do with my life after recovery?’, some more helpful questions are those that invite us to consider our feeling:

What kind of days do I want?

What feelings do I want more of?

What lights me up and draws me in?

What kind of people do I want to interact with more?

Self-assurance

I am a firm believer that talking therapy is something that can be a facilitator to one’s recovery, especially if the practioner can provide sincere empathy, a sense of safety or support the resolution of trauma. I am highly sceptical, however, that it is the correct healing pathway to all individuals with eating disorders. I say this because I have seen so many people spend years of their life — decades — talking about their disorder and its roots, and still not feeling empowered to release it even with their greatly accumulated insight.

If you read a lot of my content, you probably guessed I might mention this next point sometime, as its a thread in almost everything I write: we cannot talk ourselves into feeling good about ourselves if our everyday actions radically contradict that. You cannot expect to feel like a worthy person and deserve nice things if you are dragging yourself on walks through the rain and microwaving a sawdust-tasting protein cookie in the hope it makes it a little less disgusting. You can’t mantra yourself into thinking that you are deserving of love, care and compassion if you don’t let yourself have have a glass of orange juice when you have the flu or the cereal you like when it isn’t discounted. Nor can you wait for an avid sensation of inner confidence to envelop you if you relentlessly bitch about your body's appetite, appearance and "flaws" or write lists of the recovery goals that you want to accomplish and end up on Sunday without any ticked off.

And this is the flaw of therapy that does not usher action. We cannot speak ourselves into feeling self-assured since the behaviours involved in maintaining anorexia systematically undermine the very systems that allow self-assurance to exist. And both psychologically and biologically, this is exactly what an eating disorder does when left unchallenged by action.

On this topic of self-assurance, first we need to consider that starvation (to any degree) literally reduces confidence at a neurological level. Self-assurance relies on parts of the brain that handle perspective, emotional regulation, flexible thinking and self-trust. When the brain is under-fuelled, it shifts into survival mode – one that prioritises threat detection over confidence. The result of this is biologically heightened self-doubt, biologically elevated black-and-white thinking and biologically increased internal questioning. Therapy can’t ‘out-biology’ us. Only action (renourishment) can.

Second, we must reflect on how the eating disorder replaces our inner authority with rules. Healthy self-assurance comes from internal cues: hunger, emotions, intuition, values and since an eating disorder teaches us to distrust all of those (and instead obey numbers, rules and external validation), self-trust disintegrates. Once again, therapy alone cannot stop this erosion of confidence. Only putting a concerted and thorough stop to the obedience of the eating disorder can.

Next, I think its worthy to prize apart the link an eating disorder insists is present between ‘perfection’ and self-assurance.  When perfectionistic or high-functioning ‘productivity’ is fuelled by fear (of being wrong, of taking up space, of being disliked), it is not truly confidence enhancing. If it was, wouldn't you be Billy Big Bollocks (*) right now? Perfection is a mask built on foundations of terror. Where an eating disorder makes imperfection feel dangerous, sincere self-assurance befriends and welcomes imperfection in.

Lastly on this topic, we must mention the interplay between self-trust and safety.

In many ways, self-assurance derives from having a firm base of evidence of consistent self-attendance. This is the undercurrent of knowledge that “I’ll be okay even if things do go wrong, because I will make sure that I am.”

Personally, I believe that this is one of the most rewarding outcomes of recovery in its entirety. Whilst ED control feels stabilising in the short term, it requires constant self-surveillance and ED obedience, which breeds consistent self-doubt.

Self-trust on the other hand, allows us to have an underlying knowledge that, no matter what, we will self-support rather than abandon. There is reduced perpetual worry of, “am I doing this right? What do people think of me? Am I enough? Am I acceptable? Will this all work out? because we become individuals who feel as though we are enough and on our own side, inherently. I can assure you, this certain trust in yourself, rather than clenching onto the tools held within a self-neglecting armoury, is far more sincerely settling.

*(If you're not English and aren't accustomed to our bawdy vernacular, that's very British slang for "uber confident", by the way )

Conclusion

My aim was to keep this blog post short. Alas, not to be.

Nevertheless, I hope it has softened some pressure that working out who, how and what life will be like without your eating disorder are not questions that demand immediate or singular answers. Life will unfold gradually through nourishment, through choice, through aligned living.

Remember above all that you are not losing an identity; you are recovering the conditions required to form one freely. Control becomes agency. Identity becomes spacious. Purpose becomes experiential. Self‑assurance becomes embodied. Recovery is not the absence of something that made you special. It is the removal of what prevented you from knowing yourself at all.

And whoever you do become — even if that person is uncertain, imperfect and evolving — will be infinitely more authentic than the version of you that wore a mask over fading eyes.