From Control to Care: How I’m Rebuilding My Relationship With My Body

By Trinity Barnette

There was a time in my life when I treated my body like a problem to solve.

Something to shrink. Something to fix. Something to control at all costs.

I wasn’t thinking about nourishment or longevity or even health—I was thinking about numbers. On the scale, on the calorie tracker, in the mirror. I convinced myself that discipline meant denial. That being in control meant being hungry. That shrinking myself would somehow expand my worth.

But now? I’m changing.

I’ve started walking on the treadmill for 30 minutes every day. I’m fueling myself with smoothies, balanced meals, and real food that gives me energy instead of guilt. I’ve stopped punishing myself for being hungry. I’ve started listening to what my body actually needs—not what old wounds or diet culture say it should want.

I’m not perfect. I’m not “there” yet. But I’ve never been more proud of the way I show up for myself. Because for the first time, I’m choosing care over control. And that is healing I never thought I’d live to see.

Control Disguised as Discipline

For me, my eating disorder was never really about food.

It was about control.

I was struggling—mentally, emotionally, deeply—and I didn’t know how to cope. I couldn’t control my thoughts. I couldn’t control how heavy everything felt. But I could control what I ate. Or rather… what I didn’t eat.

So I stopped.

Sometimes it was a conscious decision. Other times, I didn’t even realize I was skipping meals. It became automatic. A routine. A warped kind of safety net. Because when the world felt overwhelming, choosing not to eat gave me the illusion of power. It made me feel like I had some kind of grip on something—even if that “grip” was killing me slowly.

Looking back, I see how much of it was tied to my need for validation. I wasn’t happy with who I was, but I was good at school. I could chase straight A’s. I could chase a flat stomach. I could chase approval. I could be someone people clapped for—even if I was quietly starving inside.

And in a twisted way, being hungry felt like achievement. Like proof that I was “disciplined” or “strong.” But it wasn’t strength—it was survival mode wrapped in shame. It was pain with a smile on top. And it took years for me to admit that it wasn’t working. That it never really worked at all.

Choosing a New Way

Eventually, I got tired.

Tired of being hungry. Tired of obsessing. Tired of watching the number on the scale determine my mood, my meals, my sense of worth. I started to realize that control wasn’t making me feel powerful—it was making me feel trapped.

So I made a choice.

Not a perfect one. Not a magical one. But a slow, intentional one.

I started walking. Just 30 minutes a day. Nothing extreme. Nothing punishing. Just me, my thoughts, and the quiet reminder that movement could be something kind. I swapped restriction for fuel—smoothies, meals that made me feel energized instead of empty, and snacks that didn’t come with shame attached.

The wild part? I didn’t feel like I was “letting go.” I felt like I was coming home.

For the first time, I wasn’t trying to change my body—I was trying to care for it. And that care started to change everything. The way I saw myself. The way I spoke to myself. The way I existed in my skin without trying to disappear from it.

It’s not about being skinny anymore. It’s about being free.

What My Routine Looks Like Now

My days aren’t filled with punishment anymore—they’re built on intention. I walk on the treadmill for 30 minutes a day, and not because I hate my body, but because I care about how I feel in it. That daily walk has become more than exercise—it’s a promise I keep to myself.

I’ve also added in light Pilates. Nothing intense, just gentle movements to help me feel stronger, centered, and connected to my body again. I’m not forcing it. I’m not chasing quick fixes. I’m letting it be a process.

Because that’s what this is—a process.

You won’t look “better” overnight.

You won’t wake up after one walk or one smoothie and feel like a whole new person.

But you will start to see signs. You’ll feel more energy. Your clothes will fit differently. Your mind will soften. You’ll feel proud of yourself in the quietest, most powerful way.

And that feeling? That’s the real reward.

So I stay patient. I stay disciplined. I stay dedicated to the version of me I’m becoming—not because I hate who I am now, but because I love her enough to evolve.