Where I Learned to Breathe Again
By Mia Lerner
I started swimming for my local swim team at the age of seven. I didn’t join because I was particularly fast or because I had dreams of becoming an Olympian. I joined because I was a little kid looking for connection. I wanted somewhere to belong. But before long, swimming became so much more than just an after-school activity. I quickly fell in love with the water and the rhythm of training. I began spending more time at the pool, not because I had to but because I wanted to.
Finding Belonging in the Water
Swimming became my anchor. It wasn’t just about staying active. The pool was where I truly felt myself. Through sport, I met some of my closest friends and connected with coaches who believed in me. The pool was my safe space. On hard days, it was where I went to let it all out: the stress, the pressure, and the self-doubt. In the water, everything felt quieter, more manageable. Swimming helped me learn how to work hard and keep going even when things got tough. Most of all, I loved the structure that swimming gave me. My only mission was to get from point A to point B as fast as I could.
But somewhere along the way, that love started to get complicated.
In March 2020, I remember seeing the headlines about a new virus called the Coronavirus. At first, it didn’t seem real. Even when school moved online and the pools shut down, I kept telling myself it was temporary. Everything will be back to normal in a week or two, I thought.
But things didn’t go back to normal. And once I realized that, I started to unravel.
When Control Took Over
I’ve always craved structure. I like knowing what comes next, having a plan, and crossing things off my to-do list. I find comfort in routine. So when the world shut down, it felt like everything that grounded me was suddenly gone.
For the first time, I noticed what I was eating and how my body appeared. I made some changes to feel healthier, but what started as small adjustments soon grew into more extreme habits.
Eventually, the numbers became a measure of success, a way to feel in control when everything else felt uncertain. Every day revolved around food and exercise: what I would eat, how I could burn it off, when I would work out next. I wasn’t living. Instead, I was constantly calculating. I became obsessed with routines and rules, convinced they were making me stronger, more disciplined, and more “in control”.
I loved setting goals for myself. It made me feel accomplished to hit the benchmarks that my eating disorder set for me. But deep down, I was exhausted. The more I chased control, the more I lost myself.
Even though my eating disorder had taken over so much of my life, there were still quiet moments when I wondered, Is this really normal? But the truth is I didn’t understand what was happening. I was barely 11 years old. No one had ever talked to me about eating disorders.
Whenever I thought about reaching out for help, another voice would shut me down. This was the evil voice of my eating disorder. It told me I was being dramatic, that asking for help meant I was weak. That voice promised me: If you just eat a little less and work out a little more, you’ll feel happy. You’ll finally feel enough.
My parents started noticing something was off. I was losing weight. I stopped spending time with friends. I ate almost nothing. I exercised constantly. But the part that scared them the most was how my personality faded. They gently asked questions, but every time I gave the same answer: No, I’m okay.
Midway through the summer of 2020, I went in for my annual doctor’s appointment. I remember the doctor smiling and praising my weight loss. To me, this felt like validation. I felt like I was doing something right by starving myself.
But a few weeks later, I broke. I couldn’t keep it in anymore. One night at the dinner table, I broke into tears and finally said the words: I need help. Something is wrong.
The Hard Work of Healing
Things moved quickly after that. I had bloodwork, an EKG, and other tests done. A few hours later, my parents got a call: I needed to go to the hospital. The two-hour drive there was a blur. I don’t remember crying much. I just felt numb.
The week I spent in the hospital was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I had a feeding tube inserted down my throat and was constantly hooked up to machines that beeped through the night. Every morning at 4:30 AM, nurses came in to take my blood and weigh me. I wasn’t allowed to walk, so my only time out of bed was a 20-minute wheelchair ride around the hallway each day. I felt trapped, physically and mentally.
When I was finally discharged, I thought the worst was over. I figured all I had to do was gain the weight back, and then everything would go back to normal. I had no idea how much harder the real work would be.
I quickly learned that recovery wasn’t just about eating more or gaining weight. It was about rebuilding my entire relationship with food, my body, and exercise piece by piece.
For months, I wasn’t allowed to do any sports. At first, that felt unbearable. Sports had always been my outlet, the thing that made me feel like me. Losing that connection was painful and isolating. But over time, that break helped me realize that my worth isn’t tied to my athletic performance or how many calories I burn. It taught me to appreciate movement for joy, connection, and growth rather than as punishment.
Recovery has taken me through many different treatment paths: cognitive behavioral therapy, family-based therapy, and countless sessions with a nutritionist who helped me unlearn my fears around food. I’ve had to face a lot of discomfort, sit in feelings I used to run from, and challenge beliefs that my eating disorder clung to.
But slowly, I learned to eat without fear, to rest without guilt, and to move because it made me feel alive, not because I thought I had to earn it. When I returned to the pool, it wasn’t about calories or control anymore. It was about trusting the water to carry me, filling my lungs with peace, and rediscovering the joy I thought I’d lost. Now, movement is a celebration, not a punishment, and I am finally learning to trust and care for the body that has carried me through it all. What started as a search for connection has become a space where I celebrate my body, my strength, and who I am.
