Bikini Season Was Always My Relapse Season—Here’s What I’m Doing Differently This Summer

TW: Eating disorders

Apologies for the late post this week! I’ve been deep in planning mode for the upcoming Beautyfor sale, happening next weekend (on my birthday!) here in New York. Would love to see you there—come by for discounted beauty products, fun camp-themed activations (which weren’t not inspired by the crafts I found joy in during my ~ extended spa trip ~ last month), and a chance to help me ring in 34 IRL. All proceeds go to charity! Hope to see you there xx

Based on the grey-all-day weather report leading up to MDW, I expected to spend my weekend out in the Hamptons cooped up inside, writing in my journal and doing my silly little water colors and talking incessantly about my crush on Josh Hart (GO KNICKS).

But in a surprise turn of events, the sun came out—blessing me with three straight days of lounging by the pool (slathered in SPF, obvi). The idea of a bonus summer weekend felt like a gift from the gods that I was thrilled to luxuriate in… until I put on my bathing suit.

When I looked at myself in the mirror in the two-sizes-too-small bikini that I’d forgotten to pack at the end of the last beach season, it immediately triggered the familiar voice in my head that’s been there since I was old enough to understand what a “summer body” was supposed to look like. The one that used to believe June 1st wasn’t just a date on the calendar—it was a deadline for me to feel good (read: thin) in my own skin.

Growing up, summer was always my favorite season because it came with the promise of transformation. I'd trade in my pale, anxious, hoodie-wearing winter self for a bronzed, beachy, breezy version that felt shinier and more confident—even if she only existed for a few months and required a lot of behind-the-scenes effort (and self-loathing) to maintain. I talked a lot about that glow-up last week, but what I didn’t talk about is how tightly that desire for transformation was intertwined with my disordered eating.

When I was diagnosed with anorexia at 15, I learned early on in the process that I would be “in recovery” for the rest of my life. But after decades of therapy (and a few relapses along the way), I assumed that I was finally past the food-related bullshit that had plagued me since the first grade, when I realized my two best friends weighed significantly less than I did. But then, I got engaged.

In the year leading up to my wedding this past January, the eating disorder I thought I’d recovered from came back. Hard. The pressures of looking “the best I’d ever looked” when I walked down the aisle were beyond what I knew how to handle in a healthy way, so instead, I went back to the behaviors I’d assumed were long behind me. Instead of enjoying my engagement and getting excited about the dream wedding I was planning, I was skipping meals, counting calories, and killing myself at the gym. Needless to say, I was fucking miserable. And, as we all now know, I eventually ended up in rehab.

Looking back, it’s now laughable to think I ever assumed that I was recovered. For as long as I can remember, every May has been a microcosm of that same pre-wedding behavior. I’ve always felt the pressure to be the hottest, thinnest version of myself when it came time to hit the beach… which has meant obsessing, starving, and exercising on repeat. The truth is, bikini season has always been my relapse season.

In my work, I’ve made it a point to shout from the rooftops that EVERY BODY IS A BIKINI BODY (because, holy shit, it’s fucking true), but if I’m being honest, it’s never been easy for me to take that message to heart.