Understanding Childhood Anorexia Through Lived Experience
When Food Becomes a Cry for Help
I was around nine years old when I found myself sitting in a doctor’s office, confused and unsure of the conversation unfolding around me. I remember the doctor drawing a diagram to help me understand just how dangerously underweight I had become. He explained that my stomach had shrunk so significantly that I was at serious risk of hospitalisation and being put on a drip.
Looking back now, I realise I didn’t fully grasp the severity of the situation at the time. I recall the doctor turning to my mum and asking, with clear concern, “What is going on?” He didn’t mince his words—he told her I was anorexic and gave me one week to gain half a stone, or he would admit me to hospital.
For that week, I stayed with my auntie. She fed me pasta—something I hadn’t liked before but now absolutely love. Her husband was Italian, and he had taught her to cook with such warmth and flavour that it turned eating into a comforting, sensory experience. She passed that love of cooking down to me and to her two sons. It was a pivotal moment in my relationship with food.
Sensory issues with food
What wasn’t understood at the time—and what I now recognise—is that I had significant sensory issues with food.
The textures, smells, and even the way certain foods looked could overwhelm me. Unfortunately, this wasn’t recognised or supported. Instead, I was often force-fed until I felt sick—something I do not condone and have never done with my own children.
Out of desperation, I began pretending to eat. I would hide food in tissues or serviettes and discreetly stash them in the back of my wardrobe, which was actually a cupboard built into the wall. It took three or four months before the hidden food was discovered. I wasn’t met with concern or curiosity—I was scolded. There was no understanding of what was really going on.
My memories of childhood are fragmented, but I do recall the ever-present stress and the emotional weight I carried.
I now understand that my anorexia wasn’t truly about food—it was a cry for help. A desperate need to be loved, to feel safe, and to have someone notice that I was struggling.
I see you, I hear you, and I genuinely get it.
Having lived through this, I deeply understand the complex relationship many children—especially neurodiverse children—can have with food.
Eating, or refusing to eat, can be one of the only ways they feel they can exert control in a world that often feels overwhelming and unpredictable.
If your child is avoiding food or showing signs of distress around mealtimes, please don’t ignore it.
It’s rarely about “just being fussy.”
There is always a reason—and it’s our job as adults to find out what it is with empathy and care.
Thank you for reading our blog.
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Stay Quirky , Stay Brilliant !! 🧠🌈✨
Mrs Kelly Young DipHE Social Sciences
Neurodiverse Consultant
Neurodiversity Support
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