Go with me, in your mind, to a ballet studio. (In case you've never seen one, it's a long, rectangular room with gray padding, called marley, duct-taped over a shiny wooden floor. One wall is lined with mirrors, and at the end opposite the door there's a little alcove with extra freestanding barres, a chair for the teacher and a sound system. On the wall opposite the mirror is mounted a barre - a long, sturdy piece of wood polished smooth by countless tiny hands.) There are twenty girls in the studio, all clad in regulation black and pink (black leotard, pink tights, soft pink canvas ballet slippers). Look at the girl farthest from the door - the redhead with pursed lips. That's me. This is my story.

I grew up in a family where food was enjoyed and celebrated. My favorite memories are of everyone getting together for a party, cooking and eating a huge meal and then relaxing with a cocktail or glass of wine after coffee and desserts. My mother is a stellar chef and had us in the kitchen helping her from a very early age. I honestly cannot remember a time when I wasn't "helping" mommy in the kitchen. We were always encouraged to help - my mom even bought me a tiny little broom and dustpan because I wanted to sweep the floor but, at eighteen months, the ordinary broom was five sizes larger than I was. I love to cook and to entertain - I always have.

That being said, my mom came from a family where everyone except her was morbidly obese. She struggled with her body image for years, although she's never been heavy. She's a curvy, extraordinarily beautiful woman with an inviting smile and a welcoming presence. She's what I wanted to be. Unfortunately, I got my dad's genes, meaning I grew up skinny. I went through puberty and got taller but no curvier. My sisters, meanwhile, got my dad's height and my mom's figure. Suffice to say, I was not happy with myself.

I was also a ballerina. Constantly told that I was too fat, too clumsy, I began to develop strange eating habits. These worsened when I moved away from home to attend ballet school at the age of 17. My director made me stay after class one day. Since she was significantly shorter than I, she made me sit on the floor while she screamed at me at the top of her lungs for half an hour, regaling me with all my physical problems, telling me why I would never make a dancer. The chief among these was my weight. I was 5'4" and 108 pounds. According to her, I needed to be 85 pounds or I'd never make it anywhere.

Combine these and other incidents with multiple stresses (a strange environment, a new school, being away from home, my parent's divorce, freshman year of college) and my eating habits worsened. I never finished anything. I never ate anything just because I wanted it. I didn't know I was doing this to myself - I seemed normal, compared to the anorexic girls I knew. I would not eat all day and then go run several miles with a bottle of water, in the Mississippi heat. I'd throw up, nearly pass out, and then eat a protein bar. I'd eat a "normal" amount at dinner, so nobody knew what I was doing to myself. Not even I knew that I was hurting myself. How could I? It's ballet. It's what you do.

My mom had noticed my strange habits when I came home from college. She started praying for me, which, I'm convinced, is why I didn't kill myself - why I stayed as healthy as I did.

I realized what I was doing, and I started praying for guidance, for healing, for wisdom. By the grace of God, a year later, I've reached a milestone. Yesterday I ate a double scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone. I finished it all. I enjoyed it. I didn't feel guilty. I didn't throw up. I didn't go running. And I'll probably have more ice cream today.

It's hard to deal with an eating disorder. It's hard to change your habits, hard to stop hurting yourself. I still have days when I want to do those old things - I know they're wrong, shameful, hurtful, but I still struggle with the desire, especially after a bad day. I'm not where I want to be, but I'm not where I used to be either.

To sum up, I'm thankful to be alive today. I know that my mother's faith kept me from controlling myself to death, and my own faith has brought me out of this, walking hand-in-hand with my heavenly father. Not to sound preachy, but I can't take complete credit for my recovery. I couldn't have done it alone. I couldn't have done it without my faith in Christ...without love, and hope, and forgiveness. For my mother's faith in me...for her prayers for me...for all the friends who have held me as I cried...for all the times I struggled, for the story that I have...I'm grateful. I always will be, because I know why I'm alive.