Breaking cultural barriers in my eating disorder recovery

This article discusses eating disorders and may be triggering for some readers. The Canadian Mental Health Association Crisis Line can be reached at 1-833-456-4566.

The most significant obstacle in my path to recovery wasn’t just accessing treatment—it was breaking through cultural silence and raising my voice against generations of unwavering customs.

As a first-generation Canadian born to Indian immigrant parents, my experience with anorexia nervosa revealed a complex intersection between mental health treatment and cultural barriers. While balancing two distinct cultural identities presented its own challenges, it was the deeply rooted stigma surrounding mental health in immigrant communities that proved most devastating to my recovery.

My parents’ journey began in Punjab, where they were raised with traditional values and expectations. After they got married, my father’s engineering career took him to Saudi Arabia while my mother remained in India. They eventually immigrated to Canada through the Comprehensive Ranking System, chasing the promise of their children’s success—an unspoken expectation that, though never directly expressed, was always present.

From an early age, I carried the weight of two worlds on my shoulders.

Growing up in an Indian household meant my parent’s protection often translated to restriction, a common experience for many first-generation children. While well-intentioned, this cultural approach to parenting often went against basic human desires for independence and self-discovery. Dating was considered taboo, social outings were limited, and many normal teenage experiences were seen as threats rather than opportunities for growth.

This protective bubble, though built with love, left me grappling with a profound lack of control over my own experiences.

I channeled this frustration into the few areas I could control—academics and hockey. School became a space where perfection wasn’t just possible but expected. The fear of failure prevented me from joining clubs or trying new activities. While my parents never forced academic achievement—instead simply encouraging and rewarding my hard work—I created immense pressure for myself, building walls of my own expectations.

Like many children of immigrant parents, I found myself caught between the desire to honour my family’s sacrifices and the natural urge to forge my own path.

The turning point came in 2020, during COVID-19 lockdowns. Hockey, which had always kept me active, suddenly came to a stop. My days merged into a cycle of attending online classes from bed, where boredom turned into mindless snacking. After gaining a bit of weight during these sedentary months, I downloaded MyFitnessPal, an app where logging every meal, every bite, every piece of gum became my ritual for the next two years.

What began as casual weight management transformed into anorexia nervosa—another form of control in my life. The compliments and attention I received from friends about my weight loss only fueled this newfound method of achieving “perfection.”

Perfection, however, proved to be a moving target that kept getting further and further away.

My physical decline was rapid, but the emotional toll was silent and devastating. Common symptoms began to emerge: constant coldness, severe fatigue, and decreased motivation. While maintaining my academic goals, everyday tasks required significantly more effort as my cognitive function declined.

Body checking became compulsive—any reflective surface became an opportunity for self-scrutiny. Eventually, my body rebelled through binge-eating episodes. Even playing hockey, my longtime passion, became a struggle.

The most significant obstacle in my path to recovery wasn’t just accessing treatment—it was breaking through generations of ingrained silence. In many South Asian communities, seeking therapy isn’t just stigmatized; it’s seen as a betrayal of cultural resilience. The expectation to maintain a perfect external image, to never publicly air “family matters,” created an invisible prison.

This cultural resistance delayed my road to treatment by three years. Each passing day further cemented my illness into my identity.

During my first year at Queen’s, the disconnect between Canadian mental health support and South Asian perspectives became glaringly apparent. The lack of specialized eating disorder (ED) resources at Queen’s, combined with my cultural differences, created a perfect storm of isolation. The situation reached a critical point where the choice became stark: break the silence or break me.

My recovery began through a delicate balance of professional help and peer support, but its foundation was built on something more profound—the courage to challenge generational beliefs.

My parents’ journey in understanding mental health wasn’t easy. When I first opened up to my mom, her anger wasn’t directed at me, but at seeing her daughter suffer every day. She did the best she could to help, but watching me struggle took its toll on her, too. My father took longer to comprehend what I was going through. While I still wait to hear back from the eating disorder clinic I was referred to, my parents’ willingness to question traditional views about mental health proved that cultural adaptation doesn’t mean cultural abandonment. Their journey from initial confusion to understanding showed that love can bridge the gap between traditional beliefs and modern realities.

Together, we learned that seeking help is a sign of strength, not weakness.

An ED never completely disappears, but I’ve learned to carry its lessons rather than its weight. I’ve discovered true cultural preservation includes the wisdom to evolve and adapt. I’ve rediscovered my joy for hockey, joined new clubs, and embraced the beauty of an open mindset. Life has become richer with experiences I once feared to try.

My journey of growth and healing led to founding EDucate at Queen’s, a club raising awareness about EDs and bridging the gap between cultural perspectives and mental health support.

The impact of stigma on mental health treatment affects many communities. Through EDucate, I’m working to create accessible resources and raise awareness about EDs, ensuring all students can seek help while feeling understood and supported. Alongside a team of nine dedicated students, we address the various pressures students face—from academic excellence to social expectations—while promoting an environment where seeking help is normalized and encouraged.

My story isn’t just about recovery, it’s about transforming cultural barriers into bridges.

By confronting these challenges, I not only found my own voice but helped my family discover a new language for understanding mental health. I want to create spaces where others don’t have to wait as long as I did to seek help—where conversations about EDs, mental health, and cultural identity can coexist without shame.

True strength lies not in maintaining silence or upholding rigid traditions, but in breaking cycles that no longer serve us and building new ones that embrace both our heritage and our health.

Tags

Awareness, cultural barriers, Eating Disorders, immigrant parents, recovery

All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s) in Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be contacted, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to journal_editors@ams.queensu.ca.

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