Amy - "More, Please"

Photo by Randy Bacon

There’s a phrase that’s followed me through the hardest parts of healing.

Two simple words: “More, please.”

The first time I heard it, it was said gently—spoken by my therapist on my eating disorder recovery team as I sat, ashamed and scared, in front of a plate of food. I was used to silence. I was used to shame. I was used to hiding. But she glanced in my direction with so much calm, so much belief, and simply said, “More, please.”

And somehow… it didn’t feel like a demand.

It felt like an invitation. Because she saw me, in all of my mess, and cared for me. I could exhale and at least try to face the battle before me. That moment stuck. Because over time, “More please” became more than just about food. It became a symbol of the life I was slowly—sometimes painfully—fighting to reclaim.

More energy.

More connection.

More confidence.

More joy.

More healing.

More rest. 

More peace.

More LIFE.

But getting there hasn’t been easy.

I started out in life as a pastor’s kid. I had a whole church love on me. I excelled in school, had good friends, had a supportive family…but mental health does not discriminate. I now can look back and see that I dealt with depression as young as the age of 8 years old. We went through hard times as a family when my Dad, the pastor of the church, made some poor choices. I grew up too quickly in some areas as I tried to be helpful to anyone and everyone while coping with life around me. Depression and anorexia consumed me, but I somehow snuck around in the shadows. At least enough to never really have to deal with it head on. I got into the habit of avoiding or numbing quickly, which escalated to the point of unsafety frequently. Thankfully, I survived, but I didn’t heal.

Being an adult brought its own issues with relationships, aching losses of children I would never meet here, learning where my place was in this new season, and white knuckling it through increasing mental health struggles. Shame ate at me daily, because what mom, what wife, what person in the life I was living had reason to be feeling so awful? Why was I so broken? What was wrong with me? While I was “living my best life” I was actually dying inside and out, and nobody saw it until I had the courage to open my mouth. I’m not sure where I would be today (well, my body would probably be in the ground and my soul with the Lord) if I hadn’t used the little bit of voice I could muster to reach out for help. And then everything changed. 

Photo by Randy Bacon

Since that day…that text…I have been cracked open in ways I never expected. After finally acknowledging and accepting help for my (raging) anorexia, I dove head first into intense treatment. It was not something I wanted to do, but something I desperately needed. I will always be thankful for the specialized therapist in my life that could see me, my need, and help me meet it, even when I was as stubborn as they come and in deep, deep denial. She didn’t give up, because she saw ME. But this meant time away from my home…my kids…my friends… First in residential treatment for 5 weeks and then throughout lots of outpatient care. 

Home is where we started looking at why. When. How. What. Continuing regular visits with my therapy team, being in an intensive outpatient program (twice,) learning to find my voice, and allowing others to help really got me started on a true healing journey. This is where I began devoting time to digging into my past and present—pushing myself to sit in discomfort and learn a new way of living. Practicing new skills, terrifying vulnerability, and self-compassion helped build my reserve. I’ve had to face trauma I didn’t want to name, let alone relive. All on top of learning to leave the trauma I was living in. I’ve had to learn to navigate single parenting, safety concerns, the legal system, and the ache of being misunderstood. There were days I couldn’t breathe from the weight of it all. Nights I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t sure if the walls I’d built were keeping me safe or just keeping me numb.

But through it—because of it—I’ve also begun to heal. I have learned how to FEEL instead of numb. 

And that’s what I want people to know.

You are seen.

Mental health does not have to equal shame.

Trauma does not define you.

And you are never as alone as you think you are.

Because I’ve been held—by friends who showed up with groceries and birthday decorations for my kids when I was barely keeping things together. By people who asked, “What do you need?” and meant it. By family and friends who reminded me who I am when I started to forget. And by a team of professionals who stood by me through it all and weren’t afraid to push me, gently but firmly, toward the version of myself I couldn’t yet see. 

I’ve been surrounded by reminders that healing is possible.

Not perfect. Not linear. Not always pretty.

But possible.

And more than that—it’s worth it.

What’s helped me most isn’t just the external support (though I’m endlessly grateful for it). It’s also what’s shifted inside of me. I’ve grown in my faith—finding comfort in the belief that God is the ultimate source of restoration and hope. I’ve grown in my identity—learning that I’m not the sum of my mistakes or my pain, but a whole person still becoming. I’ve grown in purpose—discovering that I want to help others feel seen and safe, especially when their world feels anything but.

Photo by Randy Bacon

Because someone once met me in that dark place, with a gentle nudge and a “more, please.” And now, I want to be that person for someone else.

So if you’re reading this and feeling like you don’t matter…

You do.

If you’re stuck in a cycle you don’t know how to break…

There is a way forward. Reach out for help.

If your story feels too messy or broken or heavy…

It’s still yours.

And it’s still worthy of being told.

I don’t have all the answers. I still have hard days. But what I do have is evidence. That healing is possible. That people do care. That your story matters.

And that “more” is always possible.

More healing.

More strength.

More faith.

More freedom.

More life.

More, please.

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