The courage it takes to share your story might be the very thing someone else needs to open their heart to hope
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BY MOLLY MCCONNELL
This is the story of two girls. They met in fourth grade, when one of them was loud, always looking for a laugh, but the other was quiet and shy, not speaking much, unless she was comfortable. The loud one was confident, at times too confident, but the quiet one possessed her own strength, though it didn’t appear until much later. When the loud one, who was gradually quieting down, moved away after ninth grade, the two girls began drifting apart. They were still trying to figure out who they were as people, and being over 1,000 miles apart didn’t make communication easy. The next summer, the girl came back to visit, but the other was on vacation. It was actually a relief to the girl who had moved – there were so many people to see, and not having to schedule one more simplified matters.
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 BY SOPHIA AL-BANNA
Eight years ago, a senior in high school, I was told that I was recovered (double clap) and I sure as heck believed it. Believed it like I used to believe in Santa, before my Jewish friend told me to check my mom’s closet. To convince myself I was recovered, I even spoke to a group of high school students in Young Life (a Christian organization) about overcoming my struggles with an eating disorder the year and a half prior. I came clean about my disease, giving a taste of its repercussions - the loss of friends, the avoidance of food-centered social events, the whispering behind my back, the depression, the hurt I caused my family, the hair loss and thinning nails, and the damage to my teeth enamel (the list could go on).  BY SARAH MACLEAN
When I was little, I was often told that I looked like Shirley Temple. My blonde curls apparently made me look “cute,” because that’s the first thing everyone told me. Starting from a young age, I was complimented for my appearance. My story is not unique. Our first instinct when we see a small child is often to comment on his or her physical appearance. We compliment little girls on their pretty dresses and tell little boys that they look so handsome in their collared shirts.  Signing up and attending an Embody Carolina training my first year at UNC just seemed like a total no-brainer. During my last two years of high school, I had closely watched and witnessed as two of my dearest friends struggled with eating disorders. It was painful. It pained me to see them struggling so much, but it was also painful to see how it was affecting their relationships with others, with me, and with family members. People were pushed away. Even the people who loved them the most, pushed away. I pushed away.
 BY GILLIAN FORTIER
Love is weird. Love is powerful; love is life-changing. Love is fun and care-free and intense and patient and consuming. But mostly, it’s weird. Think about it: there are over seven billion people meandering about our planet right now. How many others can anyone hope to meet in their lifetime? A few thousand? A fraction of a percentage. Of these, we will only get to know a few. Far too few, in my opinion. What are the chances we find someone with whom we click, who feels right, who we can know and knows us too? Yet it happens. We all have family and friends and lovers. And since an estimated 18-19% of college students are affected by eating disorders, we all love someone who is struggling. |
