When I was a little girl, I loved to run. I loved playing any kind of sport, really, but there was something about running.

So I ran on the cross country team in grade school and as much as I loved it, I would get sick to my stomach before every race.

I wanted to come in first place so badly, but what if I didn't? What if I wasn't the very best runner out there? Before every race, I would be waiting on the starting line, huddled in that 6 by 6 ft box with my teammates when suddenly my stomach would turn. I would run to the sideline and get sick, then run back to the starting line just in time for the gun to fire off, signaling the start of the race. I would take off like a gazelle leaping after it's prey and all of my fears — of not getting first place, of not being the BEST runner out there — would disappear.

Since I was a kid, my parents essentially made the decision that I couldn't continue running this way. I either had to stop getting sick before every race or quit.

But I couldn't stop the anxiety, I couldn't just stop feeling the fear of failure — so I had to quit.

So I tried to immerse myself in the other sports I was playing. And the anxiety got to me there too — sending me to the locker room just before the start of basketball games because I thought I was going to be sick. What if I didn't score the most points? What if someone stole the ball from me and scored the winning basket? Then the loss would be all my fault. And worst of all, I would have failed my team. I couldn't stand the thought of letting anyone down.

But eventually I got over that with the other sports — so I didn't have to quit those.

However, my anxiety seemed to shift to something else — academics.

I HAD to get straight As. And I HAD to be the best student in the class. And at the same time, I HAD to get along with everyone in the class — God forbid if someone didn't like me. Because if any of these things did not happen, I was a failure. It was all or nothing.

That same mentality continued throughout high school and college. I had to achieve the highest marks and the accolades from all of my instructors.

When I was in college, one of my roommates saw me running on the track at the gym. I had a lot of anxiety about my achieving the perfect college life — in academics, lifelong friendships and everything in between. So I would go to the gym and run — and all of my anxieties would disappear or at least remain at bay for some time. When we got home, we were talking with the other girls on the floor and my roommate said something like "Jules runs so fast, I saw her on the track today. "

"I don't think I'm as fast as I used to be," I responded casually.

"It looks pretty fast to me," she continued "it's like you're running from something!"

We all laughed because she was obviously kidding, but it wasn't until later that I realized she wasn't wrong.

So I continued to work out that way. Every single day. And I couldn't skip ANY days.

And I could only eat certain foods — nothing fried or sweet or deliciously indulgent — food was ONLY a reward for workouts, NOT a necessity. No exceptions. Because if I strayed from that mindset all hell would break loose — I might gain weight. I might be bloated and my ab muscles might not be perfectly defined. I would be completely useless as a person — who would want to be around a lazy, underachieving person like that?

When I started Pharmacy school, the workouts got even more intense.

I needed an outlet for all of the extra stress and pressure. I HAD to get straight As and I HAD to get along with everyone in the class. And at the same time, I HAD to be in the greatest shape of my life. So I pushed and pushed. Until I got to the point of doing dangerous amounts of intense cardio every day. And I wouldn't eat any meals. Just a few snacks. Now don't get me wrong, I've never been a huge eater. But this was even less than usual. And considering all of the exercising I was doing, I needed to be eating a lot more than I was.

But I couldn't. If I started eating more, I might gain weight in places I didn't want to.

And I might not be perfectly toned anymore. And then I would just have to do even more cardio to burn off the extra calories.

So I lived that way, chasing an impossible vision of myself. And I got the straight As. And I got along with the people in my class. And I kept the body I wanted. But I lost myself.

In June 2019, I went home for a doctor's appointment.

It was the first time I had been home in a few months, and my parents commented on how thin I looked. Now they had done this before, but they seemed far more concerned than usual. I had always been thin, but never thisthin. But I assured them I had noticed too and I was on my way to making changes. Little did I know, that was going to happen a lot sooner than I thought.

For months, I had been drinking copious amounts of water — partially to avoid eating too much. Ridiculous amounts of workouts and malnutrition on top of that could only lead to disaster. But I honestly thought it was no big deal — sure my parents seemed worried but I would be fine. So I continued to slough it off just as I had always done before...until it landed me in the ICU with hyponatremia (aka low sodium).

When I got to the hospital, I was just under 70 lbs.

My sodium level was 117 (normal 135-145) and my heart rate was in the 30s. I had 2 IV lines constantly running to try and normalize my sodium level and blood draws every 2 hours. And I finally started to see what others were seeing.

I remember the sobering moment I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time after they had driven all of the excess fluid off of me.

The sharpness of my cheek bones protruding through the skin.

My eyes sunken into my skull.

My hairline beginning to recede.

It was like looking at a skeleton.

I realized just how dangerous this had become.

I remember thinking that I might not be able to go back to pharmacy school. I might not be able to achieve something I had dreamed of for such a long time. And I broke down. I finally realized this wasn't me. All of the lies my anxiety and eating disorder had fed me were just that — completely illogical and unrealistic lies. And I wouldn't let it hold me back any longer.

So here I am.

Four months, 22 lbs and countless post-discharge appointments later — making my way through my P3 year. I won't lie and say it has been an easy road, there have been bumps along the way and there is still progress to be made. I can't say I would go back and do it all over again, but I can say I'm honestly grateful for what I went through — it was the greatest blessing in disguise I never saw coming. It prompted a REAL coming to moment for me — after spending all that time in the worst place I had ever been and finally letting go, I was freed from a burden that had weighed me down for so long.

It's reasonable to assume that I would share this story for sympathy — but I implore you to consider otherwise.

I share this to raise awareness for those living with eating disorders or any form of mental illness for that matter. I hope it allows people to realize just how debilitating they can be and why it's so important to address mental illness as a society. I hope it motivates you to be kind to yourself and others—for a number of years, no one knew what I was battling. You just never know what someone is going through on the inside. Most of all, I hope it helps those suffering from mental illness to realize you're not alone.

Help is out there.

After I got out of the hospital, the amount of love and support from my friends and family was incredible. In reality, it was there all along — just waiting for me to be ready to accept it. And that's something my eating disorder never told me.