By Emily Tuck

My obsession with fitness started young. Moving from France to Hong Kong at age ten, I was naturally taller and bigger than my peers. As a way of coping with this difference, I started to control what I ate and immersed myself in sport. At the start, it was great. The high that I got from being faster and better than everyone else hooked me, and my body began to change because of all the exercise. I was under the pretence that I had found the winning algorithm to my success: eating only a thousand calories a day and doing more activity than normal to burn those calories off. 

Supporting this feeling of success was the attention that I was getting from those around me, who endorsed my slimmer and fitter self. I rationalised controlling my food with the fact that I was liked more like this. I was achieving greater things and fitting into society's image of a woman. The dangerous underlying negative impact of my obsession with sport and nutrition was ignored. It went on for years. I lost my period from the age of 15 to 20 and plummeted down to 30 kg at the peak of my obsession, which was during the summer of my first year at university. 

That summer, my parents gave me an ultimatum: if I didn’t address my issues with food, I would have to stop playing rugby, and I could not go back to university. With their words, after those five long years, I finally saw the physical impact of my obsession. My skin was thinly stretched, my eyes sunken, my heart beat heavily, and my breath was shallow. I had always yearned to be the fastest and strongest, but I was unable to even walk down the street without my feet dragging against the floor. I lacked that much strength. 

Despite all this, I do want to underline that I absolutely loved sport, rugby in particular. I lived and breathed it; I found my best friends and had the happiest moments of my life playing rugby. I felt strong, powerful, and confident as a woman playing it. My identity was my sporting capabilities; I played for my country, I was captain of my club team, and I was part of my university team. I would lose all this if I did not take my health seriously. So, I went through recovery in my second year at university. There were ups and downs, but I finished that year feeling strong and confident and had the best summer of playing rugby. I felt invincible. It was glorious. I was ready for my final year at university.

That glorious feeling would not last long. In May of 2018, at the age of 21, I underwent a hip operation. It left me with a long, thin scar marking my leg, and screws were put in to hold everything together. To put it plainly: I got screwed. The icing on the cake? The deterioration of my hip was the outcome of my long obsession with ‘health and fitness’. 

This all started with a new recurring pain in my right hip after that amazing summer of feeling invincible. Pain would pop up when walking, training, or running, but would always dull down after resting. In November 2017, it came and never left. I did little exercise – my physiotherapist believed the pain was the result of a cartilage tear and that I needed absolute rest, which meant no more sport. My hip was on fire every moment of the day. I would get up after a lecture and have to stand for five minutes, waiting for the pain to be bearable enough for me to walk out of the lecture theatre. One of the worst moments was when a block of butter fell out of the fridge. I dropped down to catch it and cried from that slightest movement. Six months went by. Each day, I would hold my breath and just hope that the next week would be better.

University took over as finals approached. My daily routine was sitting in the library and shuffling awkwardly down the same grand staircase. In April, I reached my breaking point and pushed my physio to refer me to an orthopaedic specialist. The specialist noted my history of amenorrhea (lack of period) and issues with eating, both of which affect bone density. He wanted to do an x-ray to rule out a fracture. I went back the next day, had an x-ray, and returned to the library. When I got the results a few days later, it blew the last of my hope away: my hip was fractured. Leaving everything in the library, I went straight to bed and just cried. Why me?

The next few days were a mixture of trying to revise, attempting to cancel or push back my exams, and spending my time at the hospital. I felt completely alone and mentally exhausted. I went for a CT scan. The next day, an MRI. These confirmed the worst: full fracture on the neck of my femur bone. Surgery was needed. 

My surgery was scheduled for as soon as possible. Usually, hip surgeries happen within 48 hours of the diagnosis of the fracture (as per the NICE guidelines), as at any moment the hip could completely collapse under your weight. I was put on crutches and arrived at the hospital two days before my scheduled surgery to read the possible outcomes of it and signed my consent. I felt like a ghost sat alone in my doctor’s office as I agreed to possible death, amputation, and nerve damage. My surgery ended up being on the first day of my exams. How ironic. 

For two years following my surgery, I walked around with a black cloud over my head. I knew that it would take two years for my body to be at a stage where I could start regular exercise again. What I underestimated was the mental trauma this would cause me. I lost confidence in myself and dived into a heavy depressive and anxious period, which alienated me from my friends. I felt completely robbed and disheartened. Each step I took reminded me of how little I could do, and when people asked, I had no real news or progress to report, so I stayed quiet. The weight of knowing that this was all due to my obsession with health and fitness was devastating. 

But here I am now, three years on. My scar, at the start an ugly, raw red, sits faded on my thigh. It shines silver on a warm spring morning and turns purple when cold. The actual skin on my thigh to the right of my scar is still completely numb and lacks goosebumps when I shiver. My body itself has changed shape; I got my period back and, after allowing rest, my weight sits comfortably on my bones, softening the previously sharp edges. The intensity of the past is distant. 

In three days, at 7.00 pm, I will lace my boots up for the first time in three and a half years and go to rugby practice. I want to get back to the sport that I love. This time, however, I know that having a balance between activity, eating, and resting is what is healthy. My fitness obsession is behind me, and I look forward to a healthier and happier path ahead.