At twelve, I faced a battle that would consume much of my life. Growing up as a Japanese-American in the United States, I internalized the belief that being a minority made me less than others and that I had to work harder to gain acknowledgment. I resented my black hair and Japanese features, yearning to blend in and be seen as "American." When I feared puberty would amplify the traits I struggled to accept, restriction became my way to control the uncontrollable and stay invisible in a world that often invalidated my identity. My struggles with identity extended beyond race. My body clashed with the ideals of the ballet world, where perfection was demanded but unattainable. Adding to this, my neurodivergence, undiagnosed until 2024, compounded my feelings of not belonging. My eating disorder became my refuge—a misguided effort to find stability amid chaos. What began as a coping mechanism spiraled into a severe, life-threatening condition, leading to multiple long-term hospitalizations. Even now, I haven’t gone through puberty, a stark reminder of how deeply my illness has impacted my development. Well-meaning people often assumed I could simply eat more or think positively to overcome my struggles. These suggestions only deepened my shame because mental health struggles are not a choice. The notion that I could will myself out of my disorder made me feel broken. Why couldn’t I be grateful? Why couldn’t I just stop obsessing over food and my body? It’s taken years of therapy and support to understand that healing isn’t about forcing feelings but about facing my demons with compassion and building tolerance for distress. As Marsha Linehan’s philosophy teaches, you cannot force yourself to feel "better" when swarmed by mental demons AND you are not powerless or defined by them. Through this journey, I’ve begun to embrace the complexities of my identity and the importance of self-compassion. I’ve realized my eating disorder was never just about food but rooted in struggles with self-worth and belonging. This realization has shaped my perspective and fueled my passion for helping others. Now, as a first-year graduate student in Nutrition Science at Framingham State University, I am working toward becoming an eating disorder dietitian. Having lived with an eating disorder for more than half my life, I am driven by a commitment to recovery—not just for myself, but for others navigating similar paths. Some days, I want to scream, "HELP!" because the pain behind my high-achieving academics and composed demeanor often goes unseen. Many question why I didn’t pursue medicine, given my academic abilities, but they don’t know the full story. This is my story—one of struggle, survival, and a relentless desire to turn pain into purpose. To anyone facing similar struggles, my advice is this: you are not broken, and you are not alone. Healing is not linear, and it’s okay to ask for help. Asking for help is a virtue, not a weakness. Let others hold hope for you when you cannot see it yourself, and give yourself grace. While pain is inevitable, suffering can be minimized through how we interpret it. I invite you to explore the Buddhist parable of the Second Arrow, which has helped me reframe my experiences. The journey is not easy, and some days are incredibly hard. However, every small step forward matters. Despite being considered a lost cause by many treatment facilities, I continue to take those steps every day, proving that recovery is possible.

My experience with anxiety has been a long and winding journey, intertwined with my struggles with an eating disorder. At its worst, anxiety completely derailed my life. I was unable to attend class and had to take multiple leaves of absence to seek treatment—a decision that felt necessary but also isolating. What started as anxiety centered around food and body image grew into something much larger, seeping into every aspect of my life. I often wonder, what happened to the fearless little girl I used to be? The one who lived fully in the present, unburdened by the weight of others’ opinions or the uncertainty of the future? That girl seemed to disappear as anxiety took over, feeding on the past and future, spiraling into endless “what-ifs.” Even when I tried to separate rational thoughts from emotional fears, the rumination persisted. The eating disorder only compounded it—malnutrition and restriction created biological conditions that heightened anxiety, trapping me in a cycle that felt impossible to break. Post-COVID, I’ve also seen how collective anxiety has intensified. The isolation and uncertainty of that time exacerbated my struggles, and I think its ramifications still linger for many of us. Today, I am still navigating how to live with anxiety. It remains a challenge that demands constant work—tolerating discomfort, embracing uncertainty, and sitting with feelings that aren’t easy to face. Recovery is not linear, and there are days when progress feels elusive. Returning to college has become a critical part of this ongoing process. Pursuing my degree is not just about academic achievement but also about rediscovering purpose and learning to face anxiety head-on. As I work toward becoming an eating disorder dietitian, I am learning to balance the pressures of recovery with the demands of school, challenging myself to grow both personally and professionally. Every new experience pushes me to confront my fears and build resilience, even when it feels uncomfortable. This journey is far from over, but I see my education as an essential part of my healing. My degree symbolizes more than just academic progress—it represents the courage to keep moving forward, even when the path feels uncertain. I want to use my struggles and experiences to help others navigate their own battles with food, body image, and mental health. Anxiety is still with me, but I no longer see it as something I "am" or something I must “get over". Instead, I’m learning to coexist with it, to greet it with patience and compassion. Though the fearless little girl I once was feels far away, I catch glimpses of her as I take steps toward becoming the person I want to be—one who lives with purpose, helps others, and continues to grow through life’s challenges.

My mental health journey has been one of struggle and transformation, shaping my academic and personal life in unexpected ways. Before this fall semester, I spent 17 months hospitalized, feeling trapped by my illnesses and uncertain whether I could ever return to school or rebuild a life beyond treatment. During that time, I made a pivotal decision: I would not let my mental health define my future. This resolve wasn’t a one-time choice but a daily commitment, as recovery is anything but linear. Today, I am a full-time graduate student at Framingham State University, studying Food and Nutrition Science. While I am excelling academically, the challenge of balancing recovery with the demands of school remains ongoing. My experiences have profoundly shaped my goals and values, inspiring me to approach life with resilience and purpose. In the past, my mental health struggles overshadowed my academic aspirations. Caught in a cycle of hospitalizations, I found it impossible to remain in school. The stigma surrounding my diagnoses—including an eating disorder, anxiety, depression, OCD, and ADHD—made me feel defined by my limitations. At my lowest points, I doubted whether recovery was even possible. Now, I am proving that breaking free from this cycle is achievable, though it requires constant effort and a willingness to persist—sometimes even when doubt creeps in. Currently, I attend weekly therapy sessions, meet with my dietitian twice a week, and check in regularly with my psychiatrist and primary care provider. These supports are essential to managing the day-to-day challenges of recovery while pursuing my goals. Being open about my eating disorder in classes has also been transformative. Sharing my story has helped reduce stigma, while fostering understanding and compassion among my peers—future nutrition professionals who will be better equipped to address eating disorders in their work. This vulnerability has empowered me to embrace my limitations and use them as opportunities for advocacy. Balancing school with mental health requires intentional time and energy management. Self-care practices like journaling, ensuring adequate rest, and engaging in activities that bring me joy are non-negotiable. Rejoining my school’s dance team has been a particularly powerful way to reconnect with my body and express myself. Returning to dance after years away reminded me of the importance of creative outlets in my recovery. Prioritizing my mental health has come with sacrifices. I am unable to work due to the demands of recovery, which has created financial strain. Still, I understand that my health must come first if I am to achieve my long-term goal of becoming an eating disorder dietitian. Living with mental health challenges has taught me that while they are part of my story, they do not define me. They have presented barriers, but they have also become catalysts for growth and self-awareness. Pursuing my education and career has brought me a sense of fulfillment and purpose, gradually replacing the despair I once felt. By prioritizing recovery, I am transforming past obstacles into stepping stones, building a foundation to help others break free from stigma and reclaim their lives. What once felt insurmountable now fuels my journey toward a brighter and more meaningful future.

My name is Marie Yamaoka, and my journey with mental illness has profoundly shaped who I am and how I approach the world. Life had its struggles, but nothing prepared me or my family for what unfolded after 2012. At the age of 12, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder that would come to dominate the next decade of my life. For years, my pain felt like an unspoken presence in the room—heavy but invisible. My family, desperate to help, often felt helpless, unsure of how to navigate the walls my illness built around me. What followed was a relentless battle not just with an eating disorder but with co-occurring conditions that left me feeling like I was never enough. On the surface, I appeared to have it all together—good grades, an unwavering drive, and the discipline of a ballerina. But beneath that façade, I struggled daily with thoughts that told me the world would be better without me. Contrary to the common notion that hitting rock bottom sparks change, I found myself facing one low after another, each one deeper and more isolating than the last. Yet, amid the darkness, there were moments of light. This year, despite still being in treatment, has been one of the most hopeful and laughter-filled of my life. It’s been a year of reckoning—of reflecting on the pain my illness has caused not only me but also my family and those who love me. When I think of the darkest times, I wish I could hold my younger self’s hand and say, “You’re not alone. Things will get better, even if it takes time.” And though I don’t fully believe it every day, I choose to trust in the possibility of recovery, one step at a time. Today, I’m pursuing my M.S. in Food and Nutrition Science at Framingham State University, working towards my goal of becoming an eating disorder dietitian. This path is deeply personal to me. My experience has fueled my passion for helping others find self-acceptance and healing, free from the rigid rules and societal pressures that perpetuate shame and guilt. I strive to create spaces where people feel seen, heard, and validated—because I know firsthand how isolating this battle can be. My mental illness has taught me the value of vulnerability and the strength it takes to seek help. It has also deepened my empathy, inspiring me to support not just individuals who struggle but also the families who feel lost and alone. While my journey is ongoing, I’m committed to using my story to inspire hope and foster understanding for those navigating the same path.