Returning from an unexpected two-month-long medical leave comes with one giant question – one you can see forming in people's eyes as they approach.

"Where have you been? Are you okay?"

And honestly, my answer is precisely why these questions are tough to ask. It's uncomfortable. But it's also incredibly real, and I'm ready to share.

Two weeks ago, I finally clicked “returned” on my out-of-office email response – the one that vaguely mentioned my medical leave and promised a return at an unspecified later date.

Here's the thing - your emails did not find me well. In fact, they didn't find me at all. They don't allow phones in rehab.

On November 14th, 2023, I admitted myself to the Renfrew Center for Eating Disorders to confront my anorexia. It was a giant leap into the unknown – my first experience in a residential treatment program.

The next sixty days not only changed my perspective but, quite literally, saved my life.

It was a time of confronting hard truths, learning, and growing in ways I never anticipated. Stepping away from my life, my friends, my son was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

But there’s a common theme in treatment: the current phase is always the hardest, but it’s also the most rewarding. This mantra, now ingrained in my mind, has been my guide through the journey of recovery.

Breaking the news to my loved ones was the first daunting hurdle. Let's be real, casually dropping "I'm going to rehab" into a conversation isn't exactly easy. The reactions were a mixed bag – from shock and hurt to gratitude and overwhelming support. I'm incredibly fortunate to have had the backing of my partner, the team at Two Dudes Painting Company , and my community. Without them, seeking the help I so desperately needed wouldn't have been possible.

Stepping into the Renfrew Center, I was still shrouded in a haze of denial and the physical effects of starvation. Despite my initial protests, I followed my medical team's advice and entered live-in treatment. In my mind, everyone was overreacting.

The process of re-feeding was a brutal shock to my system. Within just 30 hours of admission, my body went into crisis mode. I was rushed to the emergency room for more intensive care and spent the first four days of treatment in a hospital setting.

Experiencing the true dangers of anorexia – a disorder with the highest mortality rate of any mental health condition – was a wake-up call of the most terrifying kind.

Returning to residential care, I was among 45 other residents, ranging in age from 13 to 60. Relearning to eat, allowing my mind to heal, and resetting my daily routine were monumental tasks. But in this unique environment of rehabilitation, I found unexpected joy and connection. We laughed, cried, crafted, and bonded, healing parts of me I hadn't even realized were broken.

After 30 days – and yes, including an odd Thanksgiving in what felt like 'food jail' – I transitioned to Intensive Virtual Outpatient care. This phase was a whole different world, occurring daily via Zoom for seven hours. Back home, reunited with my partner and son, the challenge was to integrate the lessons of rehab into my everyday life. In residential, I had learned the high stakes; in outpatient, I acquired the skills to manage them.

Two weeks ago, I officially stepped down from the Renfrew program. Returning to work, I've been navigating a new reality. I'm piecing together the fragments of an unhealthy past version of myself. This phase, the current hardest yet, is teaching me to take responsibility for the mistakes I made during my spiral downwards. I was forgetful, sloppy, and lost – symptoms of a deeper struggle.

I've been piecing together the fragments of an old self, an echo of the person I was before, but each piece feels different now, changed, heavier with meaning, yet somehow lighter to carry.

I’ve returned to my role, to my community, to the beautiful mundane of everyday life, but with a new perspective. I’ve brought back with me not just a renewed appetite for life but a newfound wisdom – a set of tools and truths that are now etched into who I am.

If you're reading this, I want you to know that this story is as much yours as it is mine. It's for anyone who's ever felt lost, fought a silent battle, or is still fighting. We all have our struggles, our rehab moments, our times when life knocks us down. But we also have our comebacks, our triumphs, and our everyday victories.

Recovery isn’t a chapter in my story; it’s the pen rewriting my narrative. Thank you – for your patience, for your support, and for simply being there.

For anyone who sees a bit of their story in mine, remember, we’re not alone. We’re united in the complex journey of life, and each of us is worthy of recovery, worthy of the effort, and worthy of the beautiful days that lie ahead.

So, here's to the journey, the healing, and to each of you.

Together, we move forward, one step, one day, one triumph at a time.