Saudade

aching for the past version of myself

It’s 2014. It’s the fall of my junior year in university at a small school in Oregon. I’m playing elite soccer. I’m working part time at the school’s student run cafe. The first love of my life and I have just broken up.

As a kid, I was always really hyper active and social. I played any and all sports, participated in dance and gymnastics, and enjoyed playing with my friends. I was a pretty normal little girl apart from the random but frequent bouts of nausea which would coincidentally occur at the same time or just before a major event. It got to the point that I began seeing specialists in pediatric gastroenterology. I ultimately had my stomach lining reviewed via endoscopy from which led the specialists to determine, “there isn’t anything wrong, she’s just nervous.” I was frequently teased about being a “drama queen” as a child. Turns out it was “just” anxiety. Of course, at the time child psychology wasn’t so prominent and the cause of the nausea was determined to not be physical, so the course of action was to just grow out of it. Who knew it would grow into the irrational shadow of my life.

In the small world of my college self, I was devastated and stressed about the breakup. So I focused on what I could control. I’d always been athletic, so why not that? The most common positive reinforcement or attention I received growing up was related to my athleticism/sporty side, including my body.

Veronica=athlete, and nothing else (was my perception). So I had to ensure I looked the part.

The bullshit fad of the paleo diet became all the rage into which I fell. Not only did I start to avoid any and all carbohydrates, but I also denied myself any going out for food to make sure I had full control of what I ate- only raw/fresh vegetables, limited fruit, and chicken breast or fish. Not only did I continue playing collegiate soccer during this time, but I also ran 6 miles before AND after practice. The definition of my bones and diminishing muscles quickly appeared. And so did the comments: “damn V, you are looking so fit!” “woah, you’re running before practice? that’s impressive” “I wish I were as disciplined around food as you are.” Fuel to the fading fire. All for DISCIPLINE.

My soccer coach stopped starting me in games when I had been starting consistently since my first game as a freshman. I blamed it on her being a shit coach and not knowing what she was doing. Playing favorites. So I ran more. I did everything to be a starter, training harder than everyone, eating less/cleaner…. There was no reason for her to bench me in my mind. Everyone else started to see it though.

I isolated myself because I didn’t want to be faced with food that I “shouldn’t” or “couldn’t” eat. My life was training, school, work, repeat. In that order. When I wasn’t focused on those, I was in my room fantasizing about dessert and treats others were having but telling myself I was “better” because I could control myself. I was healthier than everyone out partying. Who needs memories when you have visible abs?

Spring 2015 came around and I went to Granada, Spain to study abroad. The training continued and my meal plates became more sparse. There was a fat mass machine at the gym I attended and the main goal of my study abroad was to drop that number as low as possible. I achieved that goal, but it still wasn’t enough.

Emaciated, I returned to the states to complete my senior year, starting with the soccer season. Again, I was benched despite my training and discipline. Bitch.

The habits continued through my senior year. I didn’t go to parties, I didn’t go out at all. I missed out on building friendships because I held the relationship with my irrational demon too close. At one point after a check up at the doctor, I was rushed to the hospital due to a severely low resting heart rate and orthostatic hypotension. They kept me in the hospital for a week in the eating disorder ward, forcing me to consume calorically dense drinks until my heart rate increased. But I refused to believe it was an eating disorder; it was just that I was an elite athlete and incredibly fit.

In May 2016, I graduated from university and moved to Seattle with the hopes of going to grad school at UW. My anthropology advisor, however, suggested I take a year or two to really figure out if grad school was what I wanted to do instead of going directly into school. I ended up doing odd jobs here and there just to make some money while I figured out what to do. One of those odd jobs was being a personal trainer at a local gym.

Given my personal experience in lifting from training for soccer, I felt I could instruct others in the gym. The employers thought so too. I was good at listening to the clients and adjusting the workout based on their needs. Most of the training ended up being like a therapy session with the client venting about something going on in their life. “Ok, Betty, give me 10 more push ups.”

I did genuinely care about several of my clients. I was also constantly in the gym, seeing other people (mostly women) and comparing myself to them. Prettier, stronger, leaner… thinner. I would run on the treadmill between training sessions with clients and do as much as I could. Once I snagged a wearable device, everything got worse. I had to hit a certain number of calories burned every day. But that number grew daily and my food intake shrank.

Lethargically, I somehow got through the days. I even played some pick up soccer several evenings during the week. One night, I connected with someone who worked for Seattle Children’s Hospital and he helped me get a job there. Learning their system was one of the steepest learning curves I’ve ever experienced. After a year I got the hang of things and ended up promoted to working on some larger accounts. Despite finding some consistency and security in my life, the habits continued. So much so, I ended up enrolling in an outpatient hospitalisation program for several months. I was tired of fighting and hoped this program would help. Unfortunately, the habits I had continued throughout the program. I would clock in, do what I was supposed to do, clock out, go back to the same habits as always. Clearly, the program wasn’t working, so I left.

This self-destructive behavior continued for several years until I fell into cycling in 2019. At the time, I had been running (too much) and lifting (too frequently) with no rhyme or reason. I still had not yet found a community in Seattle, so I figured I’d give it a go, and I ended up falling in love with cycling. I finally found my community: people who trained hard and pushed each other and then shot the shit afterwards with a good meal. The negative habits dampened and the irrational demon, though still there, became weaker.

In late 2019, I met someone and fell in love for the second time. He taught me how to cook and enjoy playing around in the kitchen. He told me I looked best with my natural hair rather than straightening it like I’d done nearly every day prior. He brought out my past self. The demon seemed to nearly disappear during that time. I was… happy. Life doesn’t really remain consistent though. Covid happened and we became roommates rather than partners. We still loved each other, but we’d grown apart. So, we ended things in April of 2021, at a time when my life was just about to completely change.

Looking around in disbelief, I’d just crossed the finish line behind two of the best American cyclists at the time. I was on the podium of the biggest cycling race I’d ever started- US Nationals in May 2019. Nobody knew who I was, and that got a bit of attention. Several months later, I’d signed for a World Tour team and was guest riding in Europe. I expected the culture to be similar to that of my team in Seattle. Man was I wrong.

The competition didn’t end at the bike race. It kept going in the kitchen and at the dinner table. Wandering eyes could help you win. The less you ate, the more superior you were. Who could eat the least and still make it look like enough? The demon returned with a vengeance. I had to win at this game.

After my brief stint racing in Europe before going full time, I returned to the US and shocked everyone with all the weight I’d lost. Though a few mentioned they knew I’d shed weight with all the racing, they didn’t think I’d lose THAT much. They expressed concern but the demon responded, “you said I would lose the weight and I did.” But it still wasn’t enough.

I continued to train hard to prepare for my first year as a professional cyclist. Who knew I’d ever be here. I had to be the best, I had to show up as fit as possible. I trained more and more and ate less and less. The demon was winning.

I showed up to my first team camp and was flying. That didn’t matter though, I was still the least experienced on the team so I had to show my worth by being the most disciplined - I trained more and ate less. I was still inferior to the rest.

The first several races, I was scared shitless and clearly had no idea what I was doing. I felt like I just kept getting my head kicked in. Once I started to get the hang of things, while doing a course recon of a race called Fleche Wallone, I wasn’t able to unclip from my pedals at a stop, tipped over, and fractured my elbow. It was a tiny fracture, but it prevented me from holding the handlebars properly. I had to miss the Ardennes races, which I was apparently “most suited for.” I had to miss several weeks of hard training and hard racing. I sat alone in a house in Europe, unable to prove myself. The demon again took over, but in a more destructive form.

I turned to food to cure my isolation, my disappointment, my lack of self worth. I consumed anything and everything, especially the food I would normally say “I couldn’t have.” Nothing was off limits. I ate until I was so full, I thought I’d burst. Then I made it all go away until I was empty. The instant relief from discomfort soothed me. And whatever I’d eaten didn’t stay in my body so it was like I’d never eaten it… I became addicted to this sensation even when I got back into serious training and racing. The weight continued to come off and I was still somehow flying. So, it was working, right?

May 5th, 2022 I won my first professional bike race. I couldn’t believe it; the work and the sacrifice and the discipline finally seemed to be paying off. Everything I was doing was clearly working.

The success continued with consistent performances, all the way through the end of the season, including a top 10 at the reinitiated Tour de France Femmes avec Zwift. Everyone congratulated me and complimented my form and my strength and discipline. “See? You’re doing everything right,” the demon hissed while it grew stronger and stronger.

Everyone saw a disciplined athlete. A thin and lean athlete. A serious and dedicated athlete. But nobody saw she was slowly killing herself.

The 2023 season started slowly, but my bulimic addiction continued. My consistency in performance became more clear into the summer when I placed well in the Giro Donne race. Prior to that, my demon came to light when I completely bonked at stage 2 of La Vuelta Feminina. It had been able to navigate, slyly functioning at races but this time it had gone too far. I was weak on the second stage of a 7 day race. What a waste. But… I wouldn’t face the demon; I only covered it for the remainder of the race.

With 30km or so left in stage 6 of the Tour de France Femmes avec Zwift, the day before the Tourmalet mountain stage, I was thrown into a ditch and broke my collarbone. I lay there panicking and stuck, worried no one would find me. Worried I’d lose time. Once I was pulled out of the ditch and assessed, I finished the race sobbing. I knew something was wrong and didn’t want it to be true. A few hours later I was in a sling with a train ticket booked back home. I was devastated I wouldn’t get to show what I could do on the Tourmalet, but even more worried that I wouldn’t be able to train. My addiction worsened.

Once I was able to get on the trainer, I did everything I could. I would go a little over each day, I had to hit the highest number of kJs burned possible without going too over time. I went from the trainer, to the shop nearby for every snack I could grab, to the toilet. The demon consumed me.

August 2023, just as summer was at its peak, I got to ride outside. My first ride backwash in temperatures averaging around 43 degrees Celsius (almost 110 degrees Fahrenheit). Two hours into my four hour ride, my head started to spin and I could barely pedal. I was on the side of a mountain with no cell service. I knew if I turned around to go downhill, I’d find service soon to call a cab and get home. But I HAD to do 4 hours. I had to train as much as possible. My 4 hours turned into 6 due to my inability to press the pedals and my stopping every 5 minutes to breathe. My body was shutting down and I was killing myself to fight it. With 10km to home, I sat on the side of the road, unable to move and barely conscious. Thanks to two kind men who separately stopped to check on me, I was transported to the hospital where, upon arrival, everything neck down stopped responding. I was paralysed. I began to panic and cry while the nurses hooked me to an IV to pump me with fluids. One nurse drew my blood to assess the situation. The doctor soon came back after I’d stabilized and told me I was nearing kidney failure. I’d lost so much sweat and so many electrolytes, I easily could have died if I’d not been brought in. I didn’t tell the doctor about my demon, but I knew in that moment, I’d hit rock bottom.

Since that day, I have not had another episode. I told myself I never wanted to fall into that hole ever again.

I’ve not had my period since 2014. My bones are weak. My gastrointestinal function is shit. I spent 2024 (with some time off) and 2025 trying to heal the decade of damage I’ve done to my body, but it didn’t work. I was trying to recover, while trying to perform at the top level, but I can’t recover while training and racing at the top level, and I can’t perform at the top level until I’m recovered. At this point my body is in a recovery state, and there is no way it will prioritize performance and training adaptation at this point. It isn’t safe enough to perform let alone function properly at the most basic level.

I decided to stop racing this year to fully focus on recovery with no pressure of performance in sight. Of course I want to get to a point where I can race and perform at the top level again, but I need to prioritize my health first. Until I am healthy, I won’t be able to perform well, so what is the point?

For now, I’m not doing much activity. I’m “restoring body composition” as my dietician has told me to phrase it. None of this is comfortable. I don’t know who I am when not an athlete. But I’m sure as shit not going to let that demon consume me again. I’ve grieved over the person I was before this demon showed up in my life. I wish I could be her again; be the Veronica less internally consumed. She is gone and I won’t get to experience her in pure form ever again. Though tainted, I’ll at least get to rediscover and share the pieces of her I admire most, and hopefully become the Veronica who can shut her demon down and enjoy her life to its fullest.