TW: eating disorder

I was in Pre-K when I learned what it meant to be “disciplined” by someone else.

The morning was crisp. An icy chill stung my nose as I walked through the doors of Murch Elementary School. Entering my classroom, I noticed a loop of gleaming black train tracks on the floor. And then I saw it -- the Polar Express. Tossing my backpack haphazardly in the cubby, I rushed over to the train set. My eyes traced its circles as I watched the Polar Express zoom through fake snow.

The train was on its sixth trip around the classroom when disaster struck. My mouth hung open in horror as Zack’s orange sneaker slammed down onto the track. I heard the crunch of plastic and felt the air leave my lungs. My fingers curled inward, nails pressed tightly against my palms, leaving deep indentations.

“ZACK! How could you step on the Polar Express? You are SO STUPID!”

“Taylor, you can’t speak to your classmates with that tone. Go sit in time-out.”

I skulked over to the time-out chair. Pressed against the front wall, my misbehavior on display, I felt tears well in the corners of my eyes. I directed my gaze towards the floor. Surrounded by shame, I vowed to never act out again. The punishment was too much to bear.

Punishment. That is what it meant to be disciplined.

While logically I now know that there is a difference between “having discipline” yourself and “being disciplined” by someone else, my brain can conflate the concepts. Having discipline is demonstrating orderly conduct and self-control. Being disciplined is about enforcing obedience and rules. A thin line separates these two definitions. One can have self-control without limiting yourself to a strict set of rules. This balance took me a long time to find.

After the great time-out incident, I slowly adopted the philosophy of discipline as punishment. As school became more rigorous, I felt as though any academic shortcomings resulted from a lack of studying. The consequence? An extra 2 hours of studying and canceling my Friday night plans. When I began playing club field hockey, a fumbled pass during a game meant a lack of focus at practice. Those canceled Friday night plans turned into 2 hours of studying and 1 hour of stick skills. Punishment permeated every aspect of my life and became a way of self-enforcing order. Especially when it came to food.

The summer before freshmen year, I developed an eating disorder. The pandemic made me restless. My solution: go running.

Appleton Street is the steepest hill in my neighborhood. This mountain came at the end of a 3-mile route. Emerging from Rock Creek Park sweaty and tired, the hill of Appleton Street was a slap in the face; a humbling force that required me to walk the block and resume my run on the other side. I made it my goal to eventually finish the run without stopping.

As is the case with all goals, the best way to achieve them is through adherence to a plan and discipline. I chose a two-pronged approach for my fitness journey:

1.     Run the same 3 miles everyday

2.     Eat healthier

I faced Appleton Street head-on for a month. After noticing little improvement week 1, I cracked down on approach #2. I researched diets. I limited carbs. Each lost battle with Appleton Street led to a correlating punishment. 4 minutes spent walking resulted in 4 minutes of crunches. Resting at a stop sign meant only ½ cup of brown rice with dinner.

 After 28 runs, I reached the top without stopping, yet pride was nowhere to be found. In its place was a deep emptiness. I hated myself for completing the route in 27 minutes. How could I be that slow? Standing at the peak of my mountain, I was unimpressed with the view. And so, I set another goal - and another, and another. Each goal required a more structured plan and a stronger dedication to “discipline.”

½ cup of brown rice became no carbs at all. 4 minutes of crunches transformed into a full 30-minute ab routine. Setting endless goals meant that I was perpetually underperforming. Fatigue was a sign of weakness, one that could be beaten out of me through more punishment – or rather, more “self-discipline.”

When it became evident that I had taken my fitness journey too far, my parents suggested I see a therapist. At first, I resisted. I felt comfortable living in my cycle of goals, failure, and punishment. Despite never being satisfied, I clung to rules because they were constant. I feared change. What would I measure if my life wasn’t dictated by how fast I could run or how many calories I ate?

But countless measurements never filled the emptiness. The illusion of achievement no longer served as motivation. Even when I did succeed in meeting a goal, I pushed the finish line another 10 feet away. Months of “self-discipline,” had transformed me to an empty shell. Like in Pre-K, I was ashamed of my behavior. Only this time, I had tried discipline and it didn’t work. I knew I needed to change.

Surprisingly, I found therapy to be a familiar environment. At the end of each session, I set a goal for the week. I would try eating a slice of pizza. I would write down one thing I liked about myself before falling asleep. These goals challenged me to apply structure and discipline to a new mindset. I began to loosen the reigns and allow for flexibility.

Nearly 3 years later, I still fall short. Failure reminds me of Appleton Street. Of feeling empty when I reached the top. Of meals eaten from measuring cups and 4 minutes of crunches. I remind myself that it took a strong person to break myself down, but a stronger one to build myself back up. Resilience means giving grace when I come home from a run more tired than I should be. Self-control means forgoing punishment and accepting that not every day needs to be my best. Recovery requires dedication and discipline. A new kind of discipline. The kind that enforces compassion instead of cruelty and embraces structure while rejecting rigidity.

When I gaze out at my view, I am not always impressed. However, I look back and see how much of the mountain is behind me. A feeling of pride takes the place of disappointment, reminding me that discipline relies on perspective.