Drowning For Perfection: Guest Post by Erica King Kubowitsch

Note: Eating disorder behaviors mentioned. Events and conversations have been recreated from Erica’s memories of them.

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Before the anxiety, before the creeping doubt, there was simply the water. 

Swimming felt as natural as breathing. The pool was a sanctuary where I felt calm, strong, and truly myself. As a child, especially during those endless summers, the public pool was my second home. I spent countless hours there almost every day, completely lost in games of pretending to be a mermaid and launching myself off the diving boards. I always dreaded the moment my parents would call me to go home. By six, I relentlessly pestered my mom to sign me up for the swim team.

By age eleven, I was immersed in swimming, consistently ranking among the nation’s top swimmers in the mile and finding both joy and challenge in every competition.Yet, alongside the triumphs came observations from coaches and friends about my slight frame: “How are you that fast and that small?” they’d ask, laughing. 

Slowly, subtly, these comments twisted my understanding of myself. My size, I started to believe, was not just a characteristic, but the very foundation of my success, my specialness. If I stay small, I stay fast, I stay special I thought. This insidious belief took root, shadowing me even as my body matured and the once-effortless act of swimming grew complicated.

A Fear of Growth

As I grew older, my body began to change, and with it, my relationship with swimming. It felt like I was losing everything I’d known. My performance suffered, and my coach only reinforced the terrifying belief that my worth was tied directly to my performance and body type. 

Why can’t I just be as small as I was two years ago? Why does growing up feel like falling apart?

Anxiety became a constant companion, bringing tears after practice and dark thoughts late at night. Yet, I continued to push myself harder. Outside the pool, I added extra weight training and cardio to my routine. I denied my body the recovery it truly needed.

High school brought a much-needed shift. My high school coach rekindled my love for swimming, shifting my focus to the process itself instead of the end result. Their encouraging words centered on growth, in and out of the pool, and they saw me as a person, not just an athlete. This crucial support guided me back to my initial joy for the sport. Yet the eating disorder, an ever-present shadow, changed its form. 

Orthorexia took hold. I told myself I wasn’t “starving”; I was “being healthy.” Instead of making memories with friends, I spent hours poring over food labels, endlessly scrolling through recipes I knew I’d never make, and meticulously surveying grocery store aisles as if it were my sole job. I wasn’t living; I was merely surviving on control.

The College Experience

College offered freedom, which the disorder eagerly exploited. Without my parents’ watchful eyes, my food restriction deepened. My college coach and teammates noticed, prompting me to seek help. I worked with a dietitian, met with an eating disorder therapist, and even tried anxiety medication. But when the meds caused weight gain, I panicked. I’d rather be anxious than gain weight, I thought. And terrifyingly, I listened. I quit the medication.

That’s when bulimia seized me. It was an immediate, daily battle. I’d put on a brave face for friends, but inside, my body felt like it was teeming with a desperate, wild energy. Dining out became a minefield. The suffocating terror of not being able to purge in a restaurant bathroom or a friend’s house would send my heart into a frantic rhythm, my thoughts spiraling out of control. It wasn’t a habit; it was an addiction. The relief, when it came, was momentary, the craving infinite. I thought I held the reins, but the chilling truth was, bulimia held them fast.

This internal war bled into my swimming. My energy plummeted, practices became a grueling chore, and the water that once brought joy now felt tainted with resentment. The pool, my sanctuary, became a suffocating cage. The realization hit me like a tidal wave: I had to stop swimming. 

This was an unthinkable surrender. With tears streaming down my face, tangled with shame and failure, I choked out the devastating news to my parents and coach. To my astonishment, their support was unwavering. My coach even allowed me to keep my scholarship and go on medical leave.

Keeping a Piece of the Eating Disorder

Even after leaving swimming, my identity’s painful anchor, bulimia, stayed. It clung, quiet and persistent, a shadow I couldn’t outrun. My body, breaking, sent undeniable signals. During one attempt to purge, blood came up instead of food. And as the desperate attempts continued, more and more blood emerged. The pain was immense, but what terrified me was the thought that my life would end if I didn’t stop. All illusions of control shattered. Desperate for power, I made a dangerous choice: I stopped eating, convincing myself no food meant no purge. But this wasn’t recovery; it was just another way to disappear. Hunger brought only a slower, quieter destruction.

Most days, I survived on barely enough to stay upright. My vision blurred, I was constantly lightheaded, yet I told myself I was fine. My boyfriend, now my husband, saw what I couldn’t. He called my parents, and together, they made a plan. After graduation, I entered residential treatment. That’s when things began to shift. I gained weight, but more importantly, I gained perspective. It wasn’t a miracle fix, but it was a beginning.

Then COVID hit. Now in graduate school and living by myself, the world spun, and I reverted to the one thing I felt I could command: food. Orthorexia quietly, yet potently, returned. I became an expert at pretending, maintaining a veneer of normalcy while battling an intensifying internal struggle.

The true breaking point arrived a couple years later. My cherished cat, who had been my steadfast companion through every college trial, died unexpectedly. The sudden grief was overwhelming, and my immediate, destructive response was to stop eating. It was the only way I knew to cope, to feel anything resembling control in a moment of utter helplessness.

Despite my profession as an R&D chef, surrounded by food, I wasn’t nourishing myself. I cooked, tested, and discussed food endlessly, all while my own body protested with constant stomach pain. Things I once found fun lost their luster; hanging out with friends became more anxiety-provoking and tiring instead of energizing me, and by 7 PM, my body’s lack of energy forced me into bed. I dismissed it all, clinging to the illusion of being fine, of being in control. But the mirror didn’t lie. I was shrinking, not just physically, but my spirit, my very essence. I was losing myself.

Then, a stark realization crashed over me. The message was unmistakable: If I keep going like this, I won’t have a life to live. That thought was terrifying, yet it cut through the fog, bringing a terrifying clarity.

Calling for Help

Finally, I made the call. Not because of external pressure, but because, for the first time, I genuinely understood: I needed help. I was ready to reach for it. This time, walking into treatment felt different; it was a choice I made for myself, the crucial first step on a long road to healing.

I’m not “recovered”; I’m recovering. Some days are still hard. The thoughts still creep in. But now, I meet them with honesty, not shame; with care, not control. I no longer swim, yet I’m no longer bitter about the sport or blame it for my struggles. In fact, I’m thankful for everything it has done and the profound lessons it taught me. Swimming instilled in me an discipline and resilience that I now apply to my recovery every single day. Recovery isn’t a straight line; it’s messy, uncomfortable, full of setbacks and unseen victories. Yet, it’s also filled with moments I never thought I’d reclaim—like genuinely laughing and truly feeling present in my own life.

And sometimes, I think about the young girl I used to be—the one who was just trying to hold it all together, who thought being small was the only way to be enough. My heart aches with a profound sadness for her. If only I could go back, sit by her side, offer a comforting hug, and tell her: 

I’m so incredibly sorry for the pain you carried. I’m sorry society instilled those cruel messages about your body, tricking you into thinking your size determined your value. I’m sorry those lies ever took root.

You were never broken. You are not a burden. You are inherently worthy of taking up space, of resting, of simply being. Your worth isn’t a prize to be earned. You don’t need to be perfect to be loved. You are, and always have been, enough, exactly as you are.

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As a former competitive swimmer, Erica King Kubowitsch understands the challenges athletes face with body image, performance expectations, and dietary pressures. Her battle with an eating disorder began early in life and escalated during her college years. Following her eating disorder treatment, she transitioned into coaching swimming while pursuing a Master’s in Food Science at the University of Wisconsin Madison. Erica currently works as a research and development chef at Meijer corporate in Michigan, utilizing her background to demonstrate that overcoming eating disorder challenges is feasible, aiming to contribute her expertise and enthusiasm to Running in Silence’s mission of raising awareness and promoting preventive measures for eating disorders.