And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

And he is no mean preacher;

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready health,

Our minds and hearts to bless —

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,

Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

Hi, I'm Hannah; I'm a writer, an artist, a sister, girlfriend and student. I enjoy crocheting, running, collecting house plants and, of course, birdwatching. I’m a gemini, a neurodivergent person and I make a great cup of tea. I am also in recovery for severe anorexia nervosa.

I wanted to begin this post introducing the defining parts of my character, the things that are truly me, because I no longer say "I'm anorexic". In fact I rarely say the A-Word out loud at all, because I’m laying that identity to rest after seven long years. And, assisted by my family and doctors, I’m able to do so thanks to my intentional reconnection with nature.

Some Background

Many people believe anorexia is a strive for a smaller body, a denial of sustenance and a fear of consumption — and they would be correct. However, an eating disorder is not 'just about food'. I can’t speak for every sufferer, but my relationship with my eating disorder has morphed over the last seven years from being an obsessive fixation and a means of control to an emotion-numbing addiction and all-consuming compulsion. Now, it is a total bloody nuisance.

Eating disorders* cannot be cured by ‘just eating’ or restoring weight because they are rooted in trauma and used as a coping mechanism. For many sufferers, myself included, the eating disorder becomes a form of identity and after a long period of suffering with the illness, it provides an irrational sense of pride, safety and grounding. Oftentimes we even long to be recognised as sick by others, because as the eating disorder consumes us, sickness is the only thing we care about.

Therefore, recovery is not only found in refeeding (although, of course, this is highly important), but equally in reconnecting with oneself and challenging limiting beliefs. We must practice using alternative methods of coping with everyday life, then learn to overcome the intense anxiety left behind when not utilising disordered behaviours. I’ve been flirting between therapies, doctors' offices and hospitals almost my entire adolescence, and I’ve accepted that I’ll never be the person I was before I developed anorexia. And that’s okay, I was still a child then. But I’m learning to bridge the gap between the fourteen year old that fell ill, and the woman I am now. And the catalyst between that connection is my reconnection with nature — the one thing I never truly lost sight of.

The Role of Nature in My Recovery

Through the years I never lost my love of nature, but the increasing longevity and severity of my anorexia made it physically difficult to engage with the natural world and tainted my enjoyment of birdwatching. Sunrise trips to Stodmarsh were spent obsessively watching my step counter instead of the wildlife. Evenings painting and writing about birds were replaced by hours counting calories, over and over and over. Instead of relishing my time volunteering at my local bird observatory, I was so cold and miserable that I ended up resenting it.

My illness has also affected my long-term goals. At seventeen I had to postpone my ringing licence training due to a relapse and subsequent admission to an adolescent psychiatric hospital. At nineteen I spent eight months at an eating disorder unit and had to defer my studies for a year, which I’m still worried has affected my chance of achieving a first and being accepted into my dream MA course. Finally, at twenty I realised that it had gone too far and I truly feared for my life for the first time.

Since then, I’ve moved out of Reading to live with family in Somerset where I’m surrounded by woodland, farmland, hedgerows and brooks. The calls of tawny owls follow me into sleep, while the croak of ravens wakes me up in the morning. Newts, slugs and spiders make their way indoors as I watch bullfinches and woodpeckers from the kitchen table. From watching the garden birds at my feeders during mealtimes to exploring more of this rural wonderland as I gain strength, I’m reclaiming another part of myself every day.

Firstly, I’m constantly unearthing the emotional connection between nature and my healing mind. Nature provides an expansive backdrop against which I can position myself and my life. My eating disorder made me feel contained, controlled, subtle and small. In recovery, I take inspiration from the natural world and the life that seeps into every crack, crevice and corner of the countryside. I see nature’s perseverance in the dainty snow drops stretching from beneath thick blankets of clay and the soft moss lining the peeling window panes of my car. The red kites rising from their diminished state in the 80s to the tiny wren, surviving February nights to belt its warbling trill at dawn.

Secondly, I've been considering a more simple philosophy that offers a powerful force of reason against the delusional voice in my head. Every morning I fill my bird feeders to help maintain the body heat of the garden birds, to fuel their nest building and to give them an energy boost as they look towards the breeding season. Granted, I have central heating, I don't need to build a nest and I'm certainly not planning on breeding any time soon; but nonetheless, if I’m to fuel the garden birds on their great ventures, why should I deny myself the same care and nourishment? In another sense, if I am to continue sharing my love of nature with others, then I need to feed my body and grow my strength. To work towards my career goal of publishing books on nature I need to fuel my mind. Therefore, the natural world serves not only as an inspirational, exemplary source of strength and determination; it also serves as a physical source of motivation to me as I aspire to get back out there.

The Future

Nature didn’t save me. But the natural world allows me to reflect on my own internal landscape and strive to emulate its perseverance. As the cold blanket of fear slowly melts away, I am discovering and rediscovering an energy, a voice and softness within myself again. My body is becoming a more hospitable place. As the internal war ceases, snowdrops are beaming through a pile of doubt; soft mosses line the healing sores on my memory; the wrens are beginning to sing atop the foundations I’m building from again.

Like the unfaltering annual cycle undertaken by nature, healing is ongoing. Developing an eating disorder is never a choice, but recovery is a choice I must now make everyday of my life. It’s difficult. When I speak about recovery I can see it from an entirely rational perspective, and when talking to me, you may never be able to tell otherwise. In reality, there are moments within most days where I spiral and lose this rational perspective over a simple nutritional choice. However, unlike any other attempt I've made at recovering, I move with the grit and determination that I see reflected in the tiny birds on my feeders. Using nature as my therapy, my respite and my teacher, I am certain that the future will never again look like being tearfully huddled over a bowl, counting cornflakes. My future looks like days exploring nature reserves and it smells like pine leaves on a damp April day. My future sounds like countless dawn choruses and feels like the soft brush of reeds against my palms. Most importantly, my future tastes like a flask of hot chocolate as I shelter in a bird hide on a winter morning, watching the annual migration roll in, determined to survive.

*N.B. There are many diagnoses that categorise as eating disorders — anorexia and bulimia nervosa (AN + BN) being the most widely recognised, but other illnesses include binge-eating disorder (BED), avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder (ARFID) and EDNOS/OSFED. Please also note that one's weight, shape or size is not indicative of the severity or specification of their eating disorder.