'Boxing Changed My Relationship With My Body—and My Eating Disorder'
Trigger warning: The following contains language describing eating-disorder behaviors.
The first time I punched a bag, I felt the full weight of my body charge forward to deliver the blow. The flood of endorphins was intoxicating. I was powerful. For years, therapists tried to tell me this—that a healthy body is better than a thin body—to no avail. But after one boxing class, I considered putting on weight. If my arms were bigger, I realized, I could punch more powerfully.
For many years, I had an unhealthy relationship with exercise. It was like food restriction—both a source of paralyzing anxiety and a cure for all the things I thought were wrong with my body. In middle school, when other kids made plans to meet at the diner, I made plans with Jane Fonda, scissor kicking along with the one workout video my parents owned. I wore out that VHS tape, oblivious to Fonda’s own history with bulimia. I later learned that my workout habits from that time are so common among people with anorexia they’re cliché; between 40 and 80 percent of people in treatment for anorexia nervosa are prone to over-exercising, according to the National Eating Disorders Association.
Done the right way, exercise is of course healthy—but that doesn’t mean all forms of exercise are healthy in all cases. When I eventually became a gym person, I didn’t join to get healthy. I was there to lose. I remember reading about the term “skinny fat”—a label slapped on bodies that appear thin but soft. Through the lens of my anorexia, this new term was a reminder that the goalpost always moves. Skinny wasn’t good enough, there was another thing I would have to be in order to finally be happy with my body—not just thin, but strong, too.
I started with a barre class in the hopes of swapping the soft, doughy lines of my body for “long” and “lean” muscle—both adjectives that felt non-threatening to someone terrified of seeing her flesh expand. Lithe ballerina imagery aside, barre requires endurance and strength, and makes your body ache in areas you never knew could. Within 10 minutes, my arms died a million deaths, struggling under the weight of the two-pound dumbbells. I distracted myself from the pain by scanning the huge mirror: There were so many naked arms—40 of them—and they weren’t collapsing like mine. It dawned on me, I had nearly killed myself to be thin, but I didn’t have what these women had: strength. Here, the lissome physique I’d pursued for years was a liability. The muscle fatigue made me feel like a warrior, but comparing my shape to others alerted me to the fact that I still had work to do in therapy—and that barre may not be the class for me.
When you’re in recovery from an eating disorder, finding the right type of exercise can be a murky process. “Some aerobic activity, like long distance running, is more dangerous for those with eating disorders,” says Ovidio Bermudez, M.D., chief clinical officer at the Eating Recovery Center in Denver. “Anything repetitive or rhythmic that has a ‘metronome’ effect can be triggering.” What Dr. Bermudez calls “judge sports”—like gymnastics or ballet, which judge the body as much as the performance—can also be difficult.
I found boxing by accident. When my usual barre class was full, I strapped on the bulging, sweaty gloves and expected to feel ugly. But I didn’t; boxing isn’t about image or assessing your appearance, it’s just about landing punch after punch with more power than the one before. I love that there’s a bag between me and the mirror. I love the quickness: the way my body moves first, thinks later. I love that boxing is about what my body can do, not how it looks. I love the release that washes over me after I punch the bag like it’s my greatest fear. I love that boxing is a way for me to beat back the bad thoughts about my body.