I was ten years old the first time shame wrapped itself around me like a second skin. It was a moment etched in my memory, triggered by my mum’s boyfriend, who smirked and said, “Geez, you look healthy, Krystie.” Heat rushed through my body, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Only I knew the truth behind my weight gain.
Not long before that moment, I had participated in the 40 Hour Famine—no food, just barley sugar lollies to keep us going. When the fast ended, my mum, who could whip up magic out of nothing, made homemade pizza and nachos. The smell filled the house, and I had never felt so hungry. I devoured the food with a hunger I had never known, my stomach aching as I continued to eat, unable to stop.
Something shifted within me after that day. Unbeknownst to me, I began to reach for food when I wasn’t hungry, going back for seconds, and mashing meals into strange mixtures on my plate. One day, I made a cheese and sour cream sandwich, thought it tasted odd, yet I ate the whole thing. The weight piled on quickly—my face became round, puffy.
Food was more than sustenance; it was a story woven through my family. My mum often sat in front of the TV with her favorites—packets of processed seafood sticks drowned in orange Thousand Island dressing. She consumed food like it was running away from her. Other nights, she turned to Kit Kats, cigarettes, or cheap wine, her way of numbing out the chaos around her.
She often tried to change her ways—new diets, quitting smoking, giving up drinking. Mondays were always “fresh starts,” but by mid-week, the cycle began again. There were moments when she tried so hard, like the time she saved for a small holiday, only for it to slip away when she blew the money at the pub. I still feel the sting of that disappointment.
Our lives were filled with chaos, a constant whirlwind of instability. By sixteen, I had lived in sixteen different houses across Taranaki, Tauranga, and Waikato. Sometimes we’d move into a place and be gone the next day. It felt like magic, yet it was survival.
People often ask me about my childhood. I always give the same answer: chaotic, surrounded by sex, drugs, and alcohol.
In this blog, I will share my journey – twenty years battling addiction and bulimia, my diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes at twenty, and the relentless search for healing. I recently sold everything I owned, left my successful business in the colonic industry, and took a one-way ticket to India. There, I discovered a handpan that transformed my relationship with food, reducing my eating disorder by 90%. A retreat called Path of Love was the final switch that turned my life around.
Join me each week as I share my story, my struggles, and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. This diary is not just about hunger; it’s about healing, resilience, and finding joy after darkness. Welcome to my quiet reckoning.