My job and my disordered eating have long fed each other. Talking publicly about my experience helps lift the veil of secrecy surrounding it
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othing in my life sparks greater joy and deeper shame than food. Publicly, I live and love to eat. As a food writer my livelihood depends on it. But privately, I live with a binge-eating disorder, and it can feel like what I’m devouring is actually devouring me.
My family is Italian, and their love language is food, so food is also the portal to all my memories, good and bad. Nonna’s lasagne at Easter, her zeppole at Christmas, were the best of times. The worst: foil trays piled with fried food at funerals, the liquorice allsorts I ate – and now hate – after my infant brother choked and paramedics rushed him to hospital. Emotional eating has always been so normal for me.
As a kid, I got a thrill out of smuggling chocolates into the bathroom, locking the door, downing them in quick succession then hiding the wrappers.
