"I had just finished running on the gym’s treadmill and was heading towards the free weights when something—rather, someone—caught my eye. It was a frail girl, maybe 13 or 14, carefully climbing up onto the Stair Master. Her spindly arms looked like dry, brittle sticks—the kind children use to fashion a snowman—and her boney thighs seemed as if they might snap right in two if a gusty wind blew by. Her dull, thinning brown hair was tied back into a tight ponytail, and her pale skin lacked color and elasticity. When I passed by, I glanced at her sunken, lifeless eyes. She looked so tired. So hopeless. So sad. It was obvious that this poor soul was battling an eating disorder.
I picked up two eight-pound dumbbells and began curling them towards my chest. As I counted down my sets, my mind kept flashing to the sickly teen on the Stair Master. I knew all too well what she was going through because I had suffered from anorexia when I was 12 years old. I’ve never felt so scared and alone as I did during those anorexic days. When my weight plummeted to 73 pounds, Mom and Dad admitted me to the hospital, where I stayed for over a month. Just like this girl, I felt tired, hopeless, and sad."
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