Hungry for More
A faith blog for the messy, the searching, and the deeply loved.
Growing up, I was always the tiny friend. My nickname was literally flaca. I never thought much of it, especially as a kid. But looking back, it left a mark deeper than I ever realized. Being “the small one” became part of how I saw myself — part of how I believed I should be. It quietly followed me into high school, where my relationship with food and my body started shifting in unhealthy ways. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was struggling with an eating disorder.
When I was 17, everything changed. That was the year God met me in the middle of my mess — not the cleaned-up version of me, but the one who was drowning in silence and fear and shame. I gave my life to Him fully, and in that surrender, I laid down the disorder too. It was the first time I felt freedom from something that had controlled me for so long. That following year, I went on a two-month discipleship program in Florida, and it opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking. I learned so much about body image and how God sees us — not through our flaws, not through the lens of comparison or control, but with love, grace, and purpose. For the first time, I began to believe that I was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Coming into my second year of college, I felt strong. Rooted. On fire for the Lord. I had everything I prayed for — deep friendships, confidence, wisdom, and a boldness to go and make disciples. I had found community, found peace, and I really believed nothing could shake that. I thought I had finally arrived at the life I always dreamed of.
But then winter break hit.
Everything paused. My people were gone. The group chats got quieter. The coffee dates and late-night convos stopped. And suddenly, I was alone with my thoughts, again. That silence was deafening. And in it, I fell back into the very thing I thought I’d conquered.
At first, it was just “watching what I eat.” Then it became calorie counting. Then it became saying no to food altogether. Slowly, quietly, I slipped back into the same cycle, but this time it was worse. I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t even want to smell food. I became obsessed with what I was putting in my body — or what I wasn’t putting in it. I restricted. I overworked. I forced myself to burn off anything I let myself consume. I would wake up and step on the scale, praying to see a lower number than the day before.
But I couldn’t tell anyone. I had become “the strong one,” the one people looked up to. The one people said was full of light and faith and joy. How could I admit that I was barely hanging on?
So I isolated. I went through the motions, but my soul was tired. My eating disorder stole my energy, my focus, my joy — and eventually, it stole my community too. I couldn’t go to church anymore. I stopped serving. I wanted to, I really did. But I didn’t have the strength to do anything but survive. And even that felt like too much.
Then came spring break. And with it, an opportunity to go to Tokyo for a mission trip. The thought overwhelmed me. A trip like that was huge. Not just spiritually, but physically — new country, long flight, intense schedule. Could I even go? Could I even make it?
I was so torn. But deep down, I still loved Jesus. I still wanted to be a part of His mission. I just hated myself. I hated what I saw in the mirror. I hated what I had done to my body. I hated that I had fallen this far.
But I went.
The plane ride was brutal. I was anxious the whole time, and for the first time in a long time, I was surrounded by people again — people who loved Jesus, people who reminded me of who I used to be. And suddenly, I felt it. Hunger. Not just for food, but for God. For connection. For life.
When we landed in Tokyo after 24 hours of travel, I nearly passed out. My body had no fuel. I felt so weak, so embarrassed, so ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know the truth — that I wasn’t just tired, I was starving.
The next day, I got so sick that I had to leave the group and return to the hotel. I remember sitting on the floor crying, wishing someone would just know, just see what I was going through. But I didn’t say anything. Because I still didn’t think I was “small enough” to be taken seriously. I thought I had to be worse to deserve help.
And then, just a few weeks later, I went through a breakup. The only person who had known about my struggle was now gone. It was devastating — but it was also the thing that pushed me straight into the arms of God.
With no one else to run to, I ran to Him. Fast. Like full-sprint, desperate, heart-broken fast. I cried out, I begged for forgiveness. I remember sobbing and saying, “I’m sorry God. I don’t know how I let it get this far.”
And just like He always does, He welcomed me back with open arms.
Since then, God has been rebuilding me. Piece by piece. He’s restored my joy. He’s given me strength to serve again, to be in community again. I laugh more. I show up more. I feel more.
But that doesn’t mean the struggle is completely gone. Every single day, I still have thoughts. Thoughts like “Should I eat that?” or “Am I gaining too much weight?” But now, those thoughts don’t have the final say. God does. And He reminds me, over and over, of who I am and who He is.
His grace meets me every time. His truth covers me. And when I feel weak, I open Psalm 139 and read the words out loud. Not just about others, but about me. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Still. Even when it’s hard to believe it.
This is my story, but it’s not finished. And if you’re in the middle of something hard right now — whether it’s an eating disorder, anxiety, loneliness, or shame — I want you to know you’re not alone. God is not afraid of your mess. He’s not disappointed in your relapse. He’s not surprised by your struggle.
He just wants your heart.
And even if all you have left is a whisper, He’ll meet you there — just like He met me.