Cosmopolitan - November 2016 UK

it was only 8am and I was already
two hours into my daily fourhour
workout. That was standard
for me: a personal-training
session, followed by a 45-minute
spin class, circuits for another 45
minutes, all topped off with a
gruelling, muscle-hewing abs session.
Like most mornings, I hadn’t eaten
anything either. I’d read online that
training on an empty stomach would
maximise the effect, so that’s what I did
– every morning. Occasionally, when
the hunger got too much, I’d have
some frozen fruit in the afternoon,
but mostly I’d hold out until evening.
The thing was, I looked good – at
least to the outside world. I was a health
blogger with more than 40,000
followers. I fronted athletic campaigns.
Every day I shared images
of my ‘healthy’ lifestyle
and body. Over 200 ‘likes’
for a picture of my abs
was normal, as were
comments from dozens
of women asking how
I stayed in shape.
I used to be that woman
searching for ‘health’
advice online. At
university I became
fixated with my body and went for
days without eating. I had a tough
time growing up and thought if I was
skinnier I’d be happier. I’d binge on
junk food and deliberately make
myself sick – even giving myself awful
nosebleeds in the process. I was able to
overcome my bulimia with counselling
and the support of my now fiancé, Jon.
Around this time, in 2008, I set up a
blog for my photography and styling
work, but as I became more interested
in fitness, my posts became focused
on that. I created an Instagram account
in 2012, after winning a competition
to be an ambassador for a surf brand
and before long I was approached by
well-known clothing and fitness
brands to star in their campaigns or
create workout videos for them. I’d
earn up to £600 a day and was offered
“I felt trapped
in this routine
of exercise
and starvation”
all-expenses-paid trips abroad. I also
set up a store to sell jewellery I’d
designed and linked it to my blog,
and in February 2015, I left my job as
a social-media manager to blog and
run my shop full-time. I could make
as much (if not more) than I had been
earning, just by blogging about fitness.
As I saw how other bloggers
marketed themselves, I did the same,
posting pictures of raw-chocolate
bites I’d spent hours making, and
rows of cold-pressed juices. The
difference was I would throw all the
food away after taking the photo.
I knew the way I was living wasn’t
healthy, but it felt normalised – at an
event, if I said I was going to the gym
for four hours a day, other bloggers
would say, “Me too.”
I posted a photo of
myself in a tiny black
sports bra and blue
leggings during the
peak of my illness and
captioned it ‘Progress’,
and a girl commented,
‘OMG I can’t believe
how thin you’ve got
your thighs.’ All I thought
was how they must have
been huge before.
The brands I worked with never
asked me to lose weight, nor did
they ask about my lifestyle. But my
social-media world infused with health
and wellness was the very thing
catalysing my illness.
Three months into my gruelling
regime, I woke up seeing stars. Forcing
a spoon of Weetabix into my mouth
to prepare for my morning workout,
my stomach balked and I spat it out.
I felt trapped in this routine of exercise
and starvation and needed help.
I sobbed in the waiting room for 45
minutes before a kindly GP ushered
me into his office. When he asked me
to explain the problem, I couldn’t stop.
Then, despite my protests, the doctor
weighed me. I’d lost two stone in the
space of three months and was
dangerously underweight. To the
COSMOPOLITAN · 95