Curry & Courage: Facing My Fears in Binge Eating Recovery in Thailand

TW//ED

The fear of losing control over what I ate had always been a quiet companion, lurking in the background of my daily life. But as I packed my bags for a two-week journey to Thailand, that fear grew louder, almost deafening. I was about to step into a world where food wasn’t just different—it was unpredictable. It wasn’t just about eating new dishes; it was about facing the very thing I’d spent so long avoiding: the chaos of letting go. The thought of no longer having a tight grip on my meals, of surrendering to whatever the country’s flavors had to offer, felt like an invitation to disaster. But what if this trip wasn’t just a test of my willpower? What if it was an opportunity to learn that letting go of control doesn’t mean falling apart?

Eating disorders thrive in secrecy. It’s a fact I know all too well. While binge eating disorder (BED) is more prevalent than bulimia and anorexia combined, it’s often left out of the conversation. Sure, we talk about eating disorders, but rarely do we acknowledge binge eating, even though BED affects an estimated 2.8 million people in the United States - greater than the entire population of Houston, Texas (2.3 million). 

And binge eating is not without its burdens. It can alter your perception of yourself, cause irreversible bodily damage, and can even culminate in death - as Eating disorders have the second highest mortality rate of any psychiatric illness behind opiate addiction.

Yet, America’s food culture practically breeds an addiction to processed foods—foods that are easy to grab and gobble, only to find yourself lost in the cycle of control and chaos. "I’ll just have one more bite" becomes a mantra, not because you're hungry, but because the urge is too strong to ignore.

So what exactly is binge eating disorder (BED)? Well, it’s a compulsive eating disorder where an individual feels an overwhelming urge to eat far beyond fullness, often to the point of debilitating physical discomfort. In short, it’s the uncontrollable need to keep eating, even when your body is saying, “Hey, that’s enough.” For me, it felt like I was feeding an emotional ditch that nothing could fill, and no matter how much I ate, it was never enough.

I’d been battling these tendencies for most of my life, but it really spiraled out of control after college. It was like stepping into a void—a post-graduation black hole where everything felt uncertain. I was moving cross-country, unsure of my future, and my control over food became my only tether.

At night, when everyone else was asleep, I’d sneak away to the kitchen in a daze, the world around me blurring as I searched for comfort in the food that felt like it could numb everything. I didn’t feel in control of it anymore—my body just moved on its own, driven by an overwhelming need to fill some emptiness I couldn’t name. I’d eat for hours, shoveling food into my mouth with a sort of dissociative urgency, each bite pushing me further into a haze. The rush of it felt like a high at first, but that would fade, and the overwhelming fullness would settle into a crushing weight in my stomach. I’d collapse, too sick to move a muscle, unable to escape the nausea and regret. The aftermath was the worst part—sitting there, immobilized, my body aching from the overload, and a deep, gnawing guilt eating away at me. But nobody knew. I’d smile through the pain, pretending like everything was fine, but inside, it just kept getting worse and worse.

After I moved back home, I had made it my mission to heal, thinking that, as someone who’s struggled with mental health before, overcoming binge eating couldn’t be that difficult. Wow, was I wrong. Even after finding a therapist specializing in binge eating, I kept stumbling over the hurdles of my own mind. The progress was slow, frustratingly slow. At first, I just wanted to make it two weeks binge-free. It ended up taking me three months to finally hit that milestone.

Each day without a binge was like a mini victory, something I celebrated by filling out a chart I had created for myself. I colored in a green square for each binge-free day. I can’t tell you how many sheets I printed out, only to crumple them up in agitation when I slipped. But slowly, one day at a time, I started to heal. I hit one month binge-free, then two, then three months, and finally 100 days. The day I hit that mark was the same day I boarded my flight to Thailand.

I was about to embark on a two-week journey across the globe to a country where the food culture differs so drastically from my habitual routines. Gone would be my trusty morning cereal and evenings of Trader Joe's mac and cheese, replaced with curries and Pad Thai. Don’t get me wrong, I love Thai food—I’m all about immersing myself in local cuisine. But what I don’t love is feeling out of control. My therapist had a reminder for me before I left: to succeed on this trip, I would have to stay flexible. And beyond being able to do the splits, flexibility in life has never come easy to me.

Given that my last two major binge episodes occurred in airports, the looming 30-hour travel day ahead of me was unnerving. Just a few months earlier, I was flying first class—a rare luxury for me. Yet, that experience was juxtaposed with my hedonistic binge, which included acid reflux induced vomiting into the doggy bag perched in my seat pocket. I had never felt so utterly mortified. I still remember the look on my partner’s face when she witnessed the aftermath of my binge-eating for the first time. It was a look of deep, guttural disappointment and worry, a feeling that still stings my soul. The shame I felt in that moment - and frankly still to this day - is so vast it is impossible to capture, even with the richest of lexicons. I wanted to sink into the plush seat and disappear, to press my back against it as if I could somehow erase the gnawing self-loathing clawing its way through my chest. I couldn’t escape the reality of the moment—the way I had devoured the food with the kind of ferocity that mirrored a hunger I couldn’t name, and then i just had to sit there, in the aftermath, as though my body was betraying me in the most public way possible. The way my stomach churned was almost poetic, a reminder that no luxury in the world could shield me from my own mind. 

And just a month before that, the day after the election, I sat in LaGuardia Airport, stuffing my face with more oatmeal chocolate chip cookies than I could fit in my carry-on suitcase, until I was so engorged that I couldn’t even think about the state of the world.

So, you can imagine the dread I felt at the thought of flying solo again, this time across the globe to a place where I knew my food allergies would be a challenge to navigate. My biggest fear? Getting sick—not just from gluten, but from all the warnings google alerted me of: E. coli, Salmonella, Listeria, Hepatitis A, Norovirus, hell, even Botulism. I was looking for a sense of control in a situation where I didn’t have my usual habitual comforts. Every snack I packed, every meal I had to figure out, and the lack of control over when or what we ate—whether it was choosing food from an unlabeled menu or waiting between 7/11 runs—the logistics were rarely in my hands. After all, this was a group trip. So, while I was ecstatic to be in Thailand, the unknown food situation was borderline nightmare fuel for me — a control-seeking, IBS warrior, gluten intolerant, recovering binge eater.

But surprisingly, things went well right off the bat. EVA Airlines provided me with amazing gluten-free meals, complete with Sanrio silver (or shall I say pink-ware) which meant I didn’t have to worry about getting sick from cross-contamination on the long-haul flight. I spent the long travel hours reading, sleeping, and eating only when I was genuinely hungry—not when my emotions or anxiety triggered the urge to eat. The fact that I could stop when I was full felt like a huge win. And I made it to Thailand, binge - free. That’s one more green square for me!

Upon arriving in Bangkok, I had one plan: find gluten-free snacks. In a country where food culture differs and allergens are more of an anomaly, it would not be as simple as popping in to Target with my graciously labeled GF staples. I spent hours scouring the mall - checking each label with aid of google translate’s camera feature to scan for wheat, barely, rye - all the enemies of my gut. I bought enough protein chips, fruit, rice cakes, and seaweed to feed a small army. In fact, for the rest of my trip, I carried around a duffel sized tote housing my arsenal of snacks. 

It wasn’t just about being prepared for hunger; it was about control. I needed to know that I had a backup plan, just in case. At the same time, the thought of someone judging me, of people questioning my need for control over food, made my anxiety spike. But I told myself: “12 hours. I’m going to meet 20 other girls. This is my chance to keep it together, to appear normal.”

That morning proved my thoughtless fear wrong -  I met some truly amazing people, including my group leader, Sam. We had deep, vulnerable conversations about our personal experiences with food and mental health, and I found a safe space to express myself. It made such a difference to have someone looking out for me during this trip.

The trip commenced and I was feeling good. My stomach was adjusting to the food, I wasn’t binging, and I was even able to enjoy gluten-free Pad Thai without getting sick. But I’d be lying if I didn’t feel nervous eating at a restaurant, surrounded by new faces. Even at home, I struggle to eat with friends and family—something I’ve been working on in recovery. It was night one together as a group, and we went to Botanic Backyard. The waitress spoke little English, and while I was grateful to immerse myself in Thai culture, I couldn’t shake the worry that the language barrier might cause a cross-contamination issue with my food. But I said, 'screw it,' and ordered anyway. After all, I wanted to appear normal. I couldn’t not eat with everyone on night one.

By Day 5, the rhythm of the trip had settled into something softer, gentler. In the heat of the Thai kitchen, I began to feel less like a bystander in my own recovery and more like a participant in something bigger than myself. Each step of the cooking class with Chef Lekky was an invitation to slow down, to be present, to pay attention—not just to the ingredients, but to the process. There was something sacred in the way Chef Lekky’s hands moved, effortlessly guiding us through the steps of making green curry, pad kra pow, pad Thai, and tom yum soup. The chopping of fresh herbs, the sizzle of garlic in hot oil, the gentle simmer of coconut milk transforming into a velvety broth—it was all an act of care. As I followed her lead, I could feel my connection to the food deepen, each ingredient taking on a life of its own. The burst of lime zest, the sweet heat of chilies, the richness of coconut, it wasn’t just about putting food in my mouth anymore. It was about giving attention to each flavor, letting it unfold and bloom with intention. As I stirred the curry pot, I could feel the care I was putting into each dish—a care I had never extended to myself when it came to food. It was a moment of mindfulness, of connection, and as I sat down to eat the meal we had made together, it felt like more than just nourishment; it was a reward, a gift. Every bite of those homemade dishes, crafted with love and patience, tasted of more than just the food—it tasted of understanding, healing, and the quiet realization that I could savor without guilt, without rush. For once, I was enjoying food for what it was: a celebration of the senses, not a battle to be fought.

It was that day too, I discovered a new love of mine - mango sticky rice. The simple yet divine dessert made of sweet, sticky rice topped with ripe, juicy mango and drizzled with coconut milk was love at first bite. Back in the States, I’d never dream of indulging in a dessert the size of my head multiple times a week without feeling some sort of guilt or shame. But here I was in Thailand, savoring it. A  sweet, delicious reminder that food doesn’t have to be feared—it can be embraced, enjoyed, and one in a while, indulged in.

But then, we got to Koh Phangan.

We had a wonderful morning, I gulped down my iced coffee while my friends ate acai bowls from Bubba’s. It wouldn’t be until 12 hours later that the impending disaster, the one the internet forewarned us of,  would strike. Half the group came down with violent food poisoning. What followed was a scene straight out of a horror movie, complete with immensely with sick girls, sequestered to a shared hostel dorm and co-ed bathrooms - running back and fourth and back and fourth, dry heaving in between. I prayed to some deity above that this was not Norovirus, that I would not be next.

Though my plague-induced night terrors must’ve added to the chaos, we made it out alive (though some girls just hanging on by a thread). The next morning, with our luck, we had no choice but to board a speedboat spawned by Satan himself to our next destination. I sat, hugged by my neon orange life jacket, no seatbelt in sight, while six girls, all squeezed tightly in, clutched plastic bags with white knuckles. The boat rocked and lurched violently, slicing through waves that were choppier than a toddler’s bangs after a lollipop bender. Each jolt sent us careening side to side, the sound of crashing water beneath us mingling with the chaos of our stomachs. With every wave, I braced myself, holding onto my snack bag like a lifeline, wondering if I was next to join the others in their misery. The erratic rhythm of the boat felt like a cruel joke, like the universe had decided to test our already battered bodies one last time. It was the kind of ride that would be anyone’s nightmare, let alone for girls already battling the deep, unrelenting nausea from food poisoning. Luckily, we made it (mostly) unscathed (sorry Sam. Glad I had an extra Ziplock baggie to give you!) Though it was a harrowing half hour, we finally made it to Koh Samui.

At our hostel, I slipped into my bikini, the familiar mix of body dysmorphia swirling in my head. But as I stood there, looking out at the sparkling pool sat against the Thailand shoreline, I reminded myself: it’s International Women’s Day. Today, of all days, there was no room for self-loathing. I must, if not for me, for ladies everywhere, enjoy the freedom of simply existing in my beautiful body. So, I threw my worries aside and joined my friends at the pool, laughing as we floated in inner tubes and crushed some backpacking boys in liquor-incentivized games. Victory after victory, we earned free shots and buckets of drinks—hell, I’d be happy to be bloated in these conditions, surrounded by newfound friends and basking in the light of the warm Thai sun. After a few hours of playful competition, beachside exploration, and an impromptu photoshoot that would make mermaids proud, I toweled off and took some time to rest before sundown. It felt good to unwind, knowing that I could enjoy the moment without the usual weight of guilt hanging over me.

That evening we found a local Thai restaurant that had the kind of food I had been craving: Massaman curry. I had branched out, wanting to try the savory, Thai delicacy since I first learned of it, even though I had had (girl) dinner prior. It was love at first bite. The deeply rich sauce weaved together the earthy depth of roasted peanuts, a hint of cinnamon, and the subtle heat of dried chilies, all clinging to tender pieces of chicken that practically melted in my mouth. Each spoonful was a symphony of sweet, savory, and spice, a dance of flavors that lingered on my tongue. I downed the entire bowl, not before sharing bites with the rest of the table of course. My taste buds were singing. But then, on our way back to the hostel, of course, the food guilt set in—an oppressive weight creeping up from my stomach, tight and uncomfortable, like a stone lodged in my gut. It was that irrational, all-consuming feeling of regret, a wave of self-criticism crashing in my mind. I started to replay every bite, analyzing whether I’d overindulged, feeling the pressure of every calorie, every ingredient. My stomach twisted, the familiar shame clawing at me, as though I’d done something wrong just by enjoying a meal. It was like I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow betrayed myself.

As the guilt washed over me, I felt a tug at my chest—a desire to sink into that familiar spiral of shame. My mind raced through the ‘what-ifs,’ the fear of overindulgence, of having broken some unspoken rule. But in that moment, something shifted. I stopped myself. I took a deep breath and reminded myself where I was: I was in Thailand, on an island, surrounded by new friends, experiencing a culture that had been so welcoming. I was eating a dish I’d never had before, one that was now my newfound favorite, and that was something to be grateful for. I let the cool night air wash over me, grounding myself in the present, in the moment of sharing a meal with people who felt like family already. I wasn’t going to let guilt take that away from me.

I didn’t fall tumble down the it spiral staircase of my mind. I reminded myself: I enjoyed my meal, I was thankful I got to try the curry in its most authentic state, and I even shared it with my friends who were equally as delighted, then, I moved on. That gratitude saved me. Because, it wasn’t long before I ended up on the bathroom floor, clutching my stomach and feeling very, very sick.

Was it food poisoning? Or just the nature of eating something I truly enjoyed, something outside of my typical routine? Were my biggest fears coming true?

Spoiler alert: yes, yes they are. You have a severe bacterial food borne pathogen that will wreck your gut biome for approximately a week, much longer than the other girls. You will miss out on multiple excursions. You will suffer. No no, don’t cry. Because, you will be ok, you will actually be better than you ever were. You will heal more than just the bacteria lining your intestines. 

The sickness hit me with an urgency I wasn’t prepared for—like a wave crashing against my insides, a relentless pressure building in my stomach. It wasn’t pain, not exactly, but a deep, gnawing discomfort that twisted and turned in ways I couldn’t escape.

I tried to play it cool, though. I was in the top bunk of a twin bed in a shared dorm, surrounded by girls I had just met. The bathroom was down the hall—too far for comfort. My mind was in a tug-of-war: one part of me desperately begged, Why did you eat that curry? Was it really worth it? The other part told me to breathe, to ignore the churn and just ride it out. But each wave of discomfort made me second-guess myself, pulling me into a cycle of regret and uncertainty. I couldn’t trust my own body anymore. My stomach felt like it had a life of its own, and I was just trying to hold on, wishing for any semblance of control. As the night stretched on, I lay there, eyes wide open, worrying if things would only get worse by morning.

By the time I woke up, the battle inside me hadn’t subsided. I took it slow while I was sick—well, as slow as someone like me can. First, I hit up local pharmacies, and thanks to some magic conjured by my friend Morgan (whose parents are nurses), I was gifted antibiotics that probably had a little bit of sorcery in them. Along with a plethora of electrolyte packets that felt like a personal gift from the hydration gods, I was ready to conquer the world... or at least the bed I was confined to. Oh, and let’s not forget the gogurt-esque meds of a gastroenterologist’s dream—Smecta Go. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary.

I opted out of the planned group excursions. It was sad, not being able to join the girls on some of our final adventures, but deep down, I knew my body needed a break. I went back and forth with myself, weighing the fear of missing out (the unrelenting FOMO) against the overwhelming need to recover. Ultimately, I made the choice to stay back, and I’m so glad I did.

Our hostel was right on the beach, so even though I was physically unwell (to put it lightly), I had the luxury of basking in the sun’s rays, sipping on my Gatorade, and feeling the salty waves lap at my feet. I wasn’t on a boat, chasing the thrill of a a day-long excursion, but honestly, the girls came back with nothing but envy. While they rocked and rolled on a boat through stormy weather, I got to spend the day lying in bed, healing, replenishing, and savoring the stillness. Sure, I missed out on the adventure, but I was grateful for the time I had to rest, both my body and my mind, without overexerting myself.

Even though my body wasn’t in the best shape, there was something unexpectedly beautiful about the chaos of it all. As I lay there, feeling the weight of sickness and the discomfort of my mind and body at odds, I realized that this moment of stillness was its own kind of adventure. The unpredictability of it all—the waves of nausea, the bodily discomfort—somehow mirrored the rollercoaster of my relationship with food and my body. It wasn’t what I’d envisioned for my time in Thailand, but it was what I needed. In the absence of a bustling itinerary, I found space to reconnect with myself, to honor my body’s needs rather than push it past its limits. It wasn’t easy, but each moment of pause felt like a small act of self-love, teaching me the value of rest and patience, even when things felt uncertain. The lesson, though muddled in the discomfort, became clearer as the days passed: healing doesn’t always look like progress; sometimes, it looks like stillness (or shitiness , for lack of better words).

By the end of my trip, I was so grateful. I had faced my worst fear—traveling with food allergies, navigating a new food culture, and getting severely ill, too sick for Pepcid to undo - and not only surviving but thriving through it all. The healing wasn’t linear, but it was real. I faced obstacles, had setbacks, and felt moments of self-doubt, but I came out the other side stronger. Getting food poisoning was a humbling reminder of how little I truly control, and yet, it was also a lesson in accepting what comes my way. I enjoyed the meal, savoring every bite without shame, and even though the aftermath was brutal, I couldn’t let it erase the joy of the experience. In some twisted way, I’m thankful for it—something I never thought I’d say. It reminded me that I can’t always protect myself from what’s beyond my control, but I can choose to let go of the guilt and embrace the fullness of each moment, even the grossly humbling ones.

Upon our departure on the final morning, I thanked Sam, my trip leader, with tears in my eyes for helping me through this journey. I’m not perfect. There is no such thing. But in those two weeks, I learned that healing isn’t about being flawless—it’s about growing, stumbling, and getting back up. That gratitude prevails in the face of suffering, and no monumental feat can happen without getting skinned knees, or your stomach shredded to bits. Even if my gut biome is wrecked, I’m more healed than I could have imagined. And for that, I’m deeply thankful.

What I’ve learned through this trip—and through my recovery—is that binge eating isn’t something that just disappears. It’s not gone, and I won’t pretend that it is. But I am capable of more than I ever knew. My biggest fears—the very things that used to control me—actually became major milestones in my recovery. I confronted them head-on and survived. Not only did I make it through this trip, but I did so with more control, grace, and self-compassion than I’ve ever had before. It’s not a perfect process, but that’s okay. Each day is progress, and I’m learning to trust myself more with every step, even when it feels like the journey’s a little messy. And I’m learning that there’s beauty in imperfection—and that’s where the real healing happens.

I proved it to myself—despite the abject terror I felt about how I would navigate food, I faced each challenge head-on and emerged stronger. I am accomplishing feats that my former self would have deemed impossible, and with each victory, I am rewriting the narrative of my recovery.

If you or a loved one are struggling, there is hope, there is help. click here to see resources available.