The first time I spoke to Katie Dalebout, I had that instant, middle-schooler thought: She's one of the cool girls! How can I be like her? She's just that funny, kind, and charismatic. But, in fact, Katie's story is an example of how true self-acceptance is infinitely more powerful than the best emulation. It's an old lesson, but one we should always be learning. — KM

Tears rolled down my temples and into my ears as I lay naked on my bed, clothes spread out all around me. I was packing for a yoga retreat I'd looked forward to for months when I discovered that none of my yoga clothes fit anymore. I don't even deserve to go, I thought. I'd been steadily gaining weight for the past few years — weight my body needed to function. Yet still, my mind resisted.

Throughout college, I'd steadily lost weight, and by my senior year, I'd been diagnosed with anorexia. Orthorexia wasn't widely recognized at the time, but my eating disorder was largely based on an obsession with "healthy" eating. I was more occupied with controlling my body than anything else, and by graduation, my weight hit an all-time low. So did I.

But being underweight gave me what I wanted: to feel seen, accepted, included, and worthy. I was praised daily for my looks with comments like, "You're so tiny! You can eat whatever you want."

I laughed off the compliments, but secretly reveled in them. They weren't true, of course. I wasn't meant to be "so tiny," and I wasn't eating whatever I wanted. All I ate were huge quantities of celery and spinach and not much else. But comments like these made all the restriction and salad-bingeing worth it. The constant validation made me never want to leave my underweight body, though something within me knew it wasn't sustainable. So I relished it, terrified of the day my thin body would disappear, taking the compliments with it. Every birthday, I wished the same thing as I blew out the candles on a cake I'd never allow myself to eat: "Please, let me be thin for life."

Health was an easy way to hide my eating disorder (from myself as much as anyone), because it was so culturally on-trend. Weight obsession seemed vain, but my addiction to green juice, superfoods, and all things gluten-free made me feel like a member at an exclusive club. I'd do anything to feel included; therefore, I ignored warning signs like losing my period, my hair falling out, and even doctors telling me my organs were compromised.

The more weight I lost, the bigger my obsession grew. I judged anyone who dared to eat something other than kale. I frantically clung to my diet, my smallness, and the praise that came with it. My size was the very source of my confidence. It was my superhero suit, complete with superpowers like self-assuredness, acceptance, and recognition. Without that extra-small suit, I'd have to give that identity up. Who would I be then? I didn't want to find out.