Is bodybuilding the secret to making (or breaking) your relationship with food?

What really happens when you diet to the extreme

Celebrated emaciation. Glorified starvation. Competitive dieting. My four and half years as a bodybuilder taught me more about dieting than any evidence (although let’s talk about that too, I am nothing if not an advocate for science).

Across my decade in the fitness industry, I’ve both been the perpetrator and the victim of the glorification of disordered eating with bodybuilding. More recently however, I’ve been disturbed by the prevalence of coaching within that space, of those with disordered eating (even to the extent of eating disorders) as a means of ‘healing relationships with food’.

 

On average, when I competed in the bikini class of bodybuilding, I would drop approximately 10-15kg of body fat across a full competition prep to compete in the bikini class (I actually feel a bit odd writing that now, given the progression in that class from when I started, and the calibre of athlete competing now), from a starting place of a ‘healthy’ body composition (in that my BMI was in the ‘healthy’ range, my body allowed me to thrive without food preoccupation and with sufficient physical and cognitive energy, and I was living in a societally accepted body). On average, I would diet for a minimum of 16 weeks for a show. In my final year of competing, I dieted for approximately 6 months. 26 weeks. 182 days. 4368 hours. 

 

In fact, by the time I competed in almost all of my shows, you could regularly map the world through the vasculature on the lower half of my stomach. It wasn’t unusual for me to wake up with bruises from my mattress littering my glutes and legs (albeit it was quite the aged mattress I was sleeping on thanks to PhD debt and my lack of business sense). Men would repeatedly inform me that ‘it wasn’t attractive’ to be so lean. I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a grumbling stomach, only to be besieged by the split-second realisation that I wasn’t allowed to satisfy this particular physiological need. I was consumed by my goal. I’d go to bed manifesting a placing in my next show. Each morning I’d be cognisant of the precise number of days, hours and minutes until I next stepped on stage. I’d check my body in every single mirror I walked past, car windows in the sun, and every set of scales. I’d take selfies every day, under the guise of ‘sharing my journey’. Any media I consumed to would be related to fitness, nutrition or competing. I didn’t go out for dinner. Alcohol barely touched my lips for years. I had no real grasp on the outside world. Competition prep was all consuming. I’m embarrassed to admit that I genuinely believed that people looked at me as some sort of inspiration, as if this level of discipline around my body was admirable. I revelled in those who insulted me, so I could share my upset and remind everyone that few people have what it takes to ignore the naysayers (I learned the word ‘naysayer’ from Arnold Schwarzenegger, on a podcast, about bodybuilding).

 

Ironically, I wasn’t confident at all and these egoic displays were regularly interspersed with feelings of inadequacy, imperfection and imposter syndrome. I was not remotely self-assured, despite being utterly self-obsessed. 

 

But that was the goal. All of this made me a ‘real’ athlete. Bodybuilding glorified being ‘all-in’.s The harder it felt, the more we celebrated. Ourselves and each other.

 

The reality of bodybuilding and extreme dieting 

For many, bodybuilding, much like dieting, provides a sense of ‘healthy’ control. For me, it was evident. Bodybuilding gave me a glorified outlet to mask my disordered eating.

 

It also gave me a socially acceptable excuse to have said disordered eating habits. An already healthy and lean girl saying no to alcohol or a takeaway with friends was boring. But following a strict diet and exercise regime for a trophy and a placing in a sporting competition was commendable, a true sign of dedication and self-control. 

 

Bodybuilding gave me an outlet to control my body. It gave me a space that normalised my obsession with controlling it. 

Bodybuilding as a sport attracts a specific type of individual. The rate of prior occurrence of anorexia nervosa in bodybuilders is 100 times that of the general population (Pope et al., 1993); 31% of male bodybuilders have previously been diagnosed with binge eating disorder or body dysmorphia (Pope et al., 1993); whilst 42% of female bodybuilders previously have a diagnosis of anorexia nervosa, compared with 1% of the general population (Walberg et al., 1991). 

 

Truly ground-breaking news. A sport that glorifies extreme dieting attracts those with poor relationships with food and their body. 

 

Bodybuilding attracts specific personality traits too (Helms et al., 2019). Traits like perfectionism, narcissism (this certainly doesn’t relate to my choice in boyfriends…), low self-esteem and interoceptive awareness.

 

I’d like you to use bodybuilding as a bit of a proxy for those pulled into diet culture* for aesthetic reasons, too. There are more parallels to your dieting history than many of you would care to admit. Many of us who are drawn into dieting for fat loss are looking for a safe space to channel and ultimately control our disordered thoughts, feelings and behaviours. Most of the time, we don’t even recognise that they’re disordered in the first place. We simply shift these normalised thoughts from diet to diet, assuming it’s just how we are. 

 

*Diet culture is a cluster of beliefs that equates thinness to success and which values body size, appearance, and shape above general health and wellbeing. Diet culture is not the same as dieting for fat loss per se, but is rather the culture and belief systems surrounding that. I firmly believe that one can diet without subscribing to diet culture. 

 

Extreme ‘physique-focused dieting contributes to a risk of developing disordered eating habits in 3 key ways. 

 

The first, the aforementioned personality traits and predispositions of those whom it attracts. If we already have disordered habits, perfectionist tendencies or low self-esteem, we are at an increased risk of developing disordered eating even without a calorie deficit. 

 

The second, body surveillance, is celebrated such that we are always on the cusp of self-obsession, if not knee deep in it. Diets encourage us to body check far more regularly than would be ‘normal’ outside of dieting. We fall into a routine where we think taking our scale weight every morning is a natural part of life, that lifting our shirt up and pinching our skin is as normal as brushing our teeth.

 

Let’s go back to my Saturday morning routine when I was competing.

 

Wake up and drink black coffee. I’d weigh the coffee, because I knew if I consumed 350ml of liquid, I would take that away from the scale weight. I’d always long to sleep later, because longer than average sleep time generally led to a larger drop in scale weight. After letting the coffee kick in, I’d always make sure to use the bathroom before taking my weight, because again, every little helps (little being the operative word here given the child-like amount of food I was consuming). Then came progress pictures. No matter how freezing the Manchester air was (by that point in prep, often my erect nipples were all that was left of my small and humble and non-mistakable for mountains, breasts), I’d slide into my posing bikini (not the usual diamond encrusted number but a velvet alternative, shaped perfectly to enhance my physique with its high waisted bottoms and a bra so padded it kept Victoria’s secrets, alongside every other 30-something females  secrets in the surrounding area). Then came the onslaught of videos and pictures, ensuring complete focus on every intricate detail of each pose, contracting every muscle in my body and arching my back to the point of near seizure, and of course, a couple of extra selfies for the gram. I’d hop on the sofa with a blanket and spend the next half an hour screenshotting and comparing and identifying any minute changes in my body since the week prior. I’d often ask my partner at the time to provide me with some objectivity and reassurance. No amount of experience or degrees allows a girl with body dysmorphia to form objective opinions about granular changes in her body. I’d proceed to the gym (after another few coffees and a hideous sherbet-like pre-workout supplement I consumed both to quash any hunger (does not work, not recommended, don’t do it) and double up my caffeine dose), complete my weight-training session then slog out some additional time on the Stairmaster with some Netflix trash (reality tv being the one part of competing that I’ve happily kept around). I’d come home to eat the meal I’d been thinking about since my eyes opened that morning. 

 

That was a standard Saturday in my competition prep days. Let’s not forget the mirror checking at every opportunity, selfie taking, stomach pinching, weight taking and constant comparison with other competitors on social media, day in and day out, for months, if not years.

 

How utterly self-obsessed, I know. I was truly stuck in my own head and sense of self-importance. I’m sorry past-me but you were a self-obsessed gremlin. But I urge you to consider, realistically, how often you do that for yourself. Grabbing your stomach where it folds over your jeans, comparing your body to last years’ snaps in your bikini, complaining about your clothes not fitting, justifying your weight changes to those you haven’t seen in a while. We all do it. Bodybuilding provided a space where it was celebrated for me, much like diet culture does for you.

 

Body checking looks like a preoccupation with our bodies, and the actions associated with that, usually surrounding weight and shape. There are strong relationships between body checking and eating disorder pathology, body dissatisfaction, mood and affect (Walker et al., 2018).  Regular body checking is not part of a healthful relationship with your body. It’s not a ‘normal’ pastime of those who live their lives without the negative impact of a struggling body image. It’s very important that you recognise that.

 

Most of you are fighting hard to love your body and yet you continue to obsess over it every chance you get. Body checking is a choice. No one forces you to take those selfies, drags you by the musty pyjama leg onto the scales every morning, physically twists your arm to grab your tummy roll. It’s a choice that you make, day in and day out, to find fault with her*.

 

*Framing your body as ‘she’, ‘her’ or indeed ‘him’, is one of the easiest switches you can make towards loving her for what she allows rather than what she looks like. Consider your best friendships – how many of them do you love for what they look like? As Maya Angelou said, “people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”.

 

The third reason extreme dieting contributes to a worsened relationship with food is the simple fact that as we diet for a prolonged period of time, our biological drive to eat increases.

 

Post-show was harder than any diet I’d ever done. The secrets of competitors post-show are darker than the midnight sky, in the middle of winter, on the east coast of Scotland, with your eyes closed. Post-show was when I truly started to share my own struggles, to be met with hundreds of others opening up with their stories. Poor body image, binge eating, low-mood, depression, exercise-addiction, relaxation-induced anxiety. Post-show was a shit-show. What got me out of it was realising that post-show was proxy for post-diet for so many people. 

 

I sat with a serving bowl filled with cereal, topped with a chopped-up protein bar, almond butter, granola and milk. I ate the whole box that morning. It was the day after my show. I’d had my ‘cheat meal’ afterwards, but I was giving myself the day off my diet. I’d earned it.

 

Two weeks later, I was making my way through a box of 3 doughnuts, after finishing an entire stuffed crust takeaway pizza and full tub of ice-cream (none of that low-calorie dusty air ice-cream, the type stuffed with cookie dough and brownies). I’d already resolved to do an extra fasted gym session the following morning, before my full workday and subsequent evening weight training session. 

 

Four weeks later, I was regularly training twice a day, sticking to my macros during the day and drastically overeating at night. My days would begin with hope and resolve, only to end with frustration and shame. I told no one the extent to which I was binge and over-eating. I’d voiced my slight struggles with my changing body post-diet, the lack of forthcoming goal to drive me, what felt like my insatiable appetite. 

 

Until I shared that I ate 10 Pop Tarts in one sitting. I tracked every single one and then posted the screenshot of the macro data on my Instagram page with the caption: ‘this is my reality’. Then my world changed.

 

Because this was common. Not just amongst bodybuilders, but amongst dieters too. At the end of the diet, there was often a complete lack of structure, which attached to an extremely high level of hunger, a struggling body image after months of body surveillance wreaking havoc with acceptance of the slightest post-diet fluctuation. 

  

When we lose body fat, we reduce our levels of leptin (a hormone made in adipose tissue (fat cells)), and although it has lots of roles in the body, one of its main roles is regulation of our appetite. Specifically, leptin acts to reduce appetite. When body fat lowers with a sustained energy deficit, leptin levels reduce, there is a subsequent increase in hunger and reduction in satiety.

 

At the same time, ghrelin (another hormone involved in appetite regulation), is on the increase with dieting. Unlike leptin which is more of a long-term regulator of body mass, ghrelin reacts more acutely. Ghrelin is produced within the gastrointestinal tract and acts to stimulate hunger and increase our drive to eat. It responds to short term fluctuations in energy intake. When you consume relatively fewer calories, ghrelin production increases. For this reason too, we get hungrier as we continue with time in a deficit. This is a normal, protective physiological phenomenon. 

  

Let’s add on top of this the psychological side of restriction. When we diet to extremes, we often restrict food groups entirely, usually because we decide that we’ve ‘no self-control’ for moderation, so best not to have it at all. We take all the ‘junk food’ out of the house (usually after a Sunday night of eating as much of it as we can) and go cold turkey (I do hope for your sake that your diet quality is better than eating literal cold turkey like I did, for breakfast, before competing. Again, sorry past-self). 

 

It works. For a while. But long-term, it’s completely unsustainable. You can’t block, delete and move on from a stuffed crust pizza.

 

Marlatt (1978) describes the abstinence violation effect that leads people to respond to any return to drug or alcohol use (because that’s usually where this is seen) after a period of abstinence with despair and a sense of failure. Basically, you promise not to eat a doughnut. You eat a doughnut. You’re laced with guilt, sprinkled with shame. Enter the ‘screw it’ mentality. You’re a failure anyway, so you may as well eat all the doughnuts, plus whatever else you can get your hands on before you start fresh tomorrow. It’s the tendency we have to continue to engage in a certain behaviour after a violation to the promise that we’d made to ourselves that we’d abstain. 

 

If you relate to this, it’s so important to see that doughnut as a normal little lapse in your diet. It might not even be a lapse given for fat loss at least, if it’s within your calories it doesn’t matter hugely. The abstinence violation effect often occurs when we fail to differentiate between a lapse, and a relapse. 

 

It’s also super important to not actually make that promise to ourselves never to eat a doughnut in the first place. If we don’t try to completely abstain, we’re less likely to feel that we’ve violated some rule. That’s one reason why giving yourself unconditional permission to eat all foods, should you choose to do so, is a critical factor in maintaining a healthy relationship with food. 

Finally, dieting to extremes creates a sense of disembodiment. A chronic disregard for internal cues of hunger, fullness, need for rest. Dieting is disembodiment, whilst a large part of recovery from disordered eating works to cultivate and strengthen feelings of embodiment through somatic and mindfulness practices. When a person looks to restore a healthful relationship with food, one of the key pillars of work is re-establishing a trust in their own bodies, learning to live within them again and importantly, feeling safe to do so.

 

The personality traits of extreme dieters, the self-surveillance, the biological drive to eat, the disembodiment and the diet culture narratives combine in this treacherous tornado to completely demolish our relationship with food after prolonged or extreme diets.

What if you’re the exception?

When you’re in the depths of disordered eating, any ‘improvement’ feels supportive ,like a step in the right direction to improving your relationship with food. This is what these coaches sell, when they horrifyingly claim that bodybuilding has ‘cured’ someone's eating disorder. 

A facade recovery from disordered eating with bodybuilding will look something like this: continuing self-critical thoughts now framed as measurements of physique progress; ‘food freedom’ now you’re including more foods that you’ve been fearful of once per week as an ‘untracked meal’; no longer restricting calories every day as ‘food is fuel’; no longer binge eating when tracking macros or following a strict meal plan.

On the surface, this sounds like progress with your relationship with food. Indeed, if you remove intention from the equation, I can understand why it feels that way. But a lot of behaviours around food are variable in their impact on your health by means of their intent. More importantly, these behaviours are still very much driven by external rules and aesthetic focus. Those with the most healthful relationships with food however, tend to make food and exercise decisions intuitively, founded in interoceptive awareness, physical and emotional need, values and preferences. 

If you consider healing your relationship with food moves you in one direction, bodybuilding moves you in the other. Not only is bodybuilding delaying you from receiving the right support, it’s also moving you in the opposite direction, away from peace with food. 

Many people don’t realise or accept this until they are ready to give up the sport or constant pursuit of thinness. Many of those people sell the sauce they’re having. And this is where I draw the line.

Read more on this topic from Psychotherapist and ETPHD coach

Bekka

---

Ready to find true peace with food? Listen to the ETPHD team podcast & get hours of free resources at https://www.emilia.fitness/freeresources Get better at coaching at www.eiqnutrition.com