I remember that  new-born baby, that warm chubby cheeked bundle lying on my chest,  taking her breaths with mine, and I felt I could protect her from anything. Now fifteen years on, emaciated, refusing food, facing death. Food is her medicine but her brain tells her it’s her enemy.

The eating disorder takes everything away from her. It clouds her vision and distorts everything she once believed. How do you save the child you once held so close when she’s so far gone from herself?

I remember the nights standing by her bedroom door, watching the subtle rise and fall of the bedclothes, my only reassurance that she was still there, still breathing. In hospital her body was so weakened, and each breath seemed to come slower.  In the inpatient unit she was alone. Home from inpatient there were many nights I slept on her bedroom floor close enough to hear her breathing. She had forgotten who she truly was under the layers of fear and distortion.

Breakthroughs and setbacks, messy, complicated and far from quick, it’s impossible to overstate how much pain she, and we, endured and at times still do. External help was essential.

Two years on I no longer lie awake at night straining to hear her breath, no longer counting the shallow rises and falls of her chest in the dark. And for that I am endlessly thankful.