Grace

I didn’t think anything was going to change that day.

Appointments were supposed to be quick… answer a few questions, nod, leave. I was already thinking about what I had to do next, how I was going to make up for the time I was losing sitting in that office.  But the doctor wasn’t moving at my pace.  

Somewhere between the usual doctor’s office questions — How was your summer? Playing any sports? Getting enough sleep? — The conversation shifted into one of concern.  

Before I knew it, I was getting my orthostatics tested, the stiff pink gown crinkling as I lay down, the blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm, doctors taking notes as my mind raced.  

The doctor left the room for a few minutes as I stared at the plastic decals on the walls to pass the time. Zoo animals there meant to comfort the toddlers, but gave me absolutely no reassurance that everything would be okay. When she came back, her voice had softened in the careful way adults speak when they already know something you don’t want to hear. 

Suddenly, new words floated around the room: “monitoring”, “treatment”, “hospital”. These words sounded too serious to belong to me. “Your heart rate is the lowest I have ever seen,” said my pediatrician. No words left my mouth.  “I’m going to have to call the hospital. With a heart rate this low, I must tell them. It is up to them to admit you.”  

I remember nodding before I even understood what she was saying. Her words didn’t come all at once; they came to me in pieces, like I was hearing them underwater.  

A few hours later, I was in the back of my parents’ car with my suitcase filled with what I hoped would be enough for my stay there, with no definite timeline. I stared out the window, watching the world rush past me, trying to convince myself that it was only temporary. 

I arrived at my hospital room, the room I would be confined to for who knows how long. There was a small bed with a thin rubber mattress and stiff white sheets tucked in neatly. The bed was surrounded by machines and monitors, the walls grey and dull with nothing but a TV and a clock that felt like it was mocking me.

I placed my bag down awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. The room didn’t feel comforting, but it didn’t feel avoidable either. It felt like a pause button I never meant to press. And for the first time in months, there was nowhere left to pretend like everything was fine.  

With nothing to distract me, I started replaying the months leading up to the hospital in my head.  At the time, none of my habits felt dangerous; in fact, they felt like discipline, like I was just being healthy, responsible even. Counting calories became automatic, numbers constantly running through my brain, no matter where I was or who I was with.  

I stopped eating for so many months that eventually I stopped having hunger cues altogether. I was exhausted all the time. My hands were always cold, and I would have chills on the hottest of summer days. Even climbing a flight of stairs would leave me strangely tired, and faintness was a constant occurrence.  

My bones visibly sticking out was something to be proud of, almost like trophies of this so-called discipline. That was the part that scared me the most once I was finally forced to slow down: I hadn’t realized how sick I was becoming, because in my mind, what should have been warning signs were viewed as proof that I was succeeding. 

 At the hospital, everything revolved around taking care of me, something that I found deeply uncomfortable. Nurses would check on me throughout the night, waking me up to take my vitals while I was half asleep. Three meals and three snacks at the exact same time every day, whether I wanted them or not. I had to take showers sitting down with the help of my mom because if I stood, I would most likely faint. An IV was jammed into my wrist 24/7, and EKG leads were taped to my chest and stomach at all times, confining me to my monitors.  

There was no way to avoid my problems anymore, no way to convince the people around me that I was okay.  At first, being forced to slow down and let go of control felt unbearable – terrifying, honestly. I hated how visible my struggles became, everything being charted, written down, or diagnosed instead of kept away, hidden in my brain.  

But somewhere in between the hospital routines, sleepless nights, hours spent alone with my thoughts, mindlessly watching The Great British Baking Show, something started to shift. 

For the longest time, I treated kindness toward myself as something conditional, something “earned”, determined by how much the number on the scale dropped, how little I could eat in a day, or how long I could exercise for. The hospital was the first place that forced me to confront the possibility that my body was deserving of care.  

Recovery did not begin with suddenly loving myself. It began much smaller than that. It began with the thought that maybe I deserve to give myself the grace that I so easily give to everyone else. 

+++++ Sasha Speyer is in recovery and is sharing her story in hopes it resonates with others who may see themselves in it.