Hi, I’m Rebecca, your certified coach, and I want to share my personal journey with you in hopes it changes how you view the fitness industry. My story isn’t the usual success story that you're probably used to hearing—it’s not about being the kid who struggled with weight or bad habits. It’s about enduring a very toxic relationship, being manipulated at a young age, and turning to food as a way to cope with the trauma. This led to an eating disorder that I worked hard to overcome, though the impact of that experience still remains a part of me.
Of course my journey starts with a deep love for the gym. I’ve been working out for a long time, well before I became a fitness professional. At 14, I started exercising, and it quickly became an interest of mine. My father lovingly always emphasized the importance of a “sound mind in a sound body,” teaching me about the benefits of moving your body and eating well. My passion for health and fitness started at a young (and impressionable) age. Back then, I didn’t always pay attention to where I was learning from, I just knew I wanted to take care of myself (and look good).
In high school, I didn’t fit in easily. I know it may come as a surprise to those who know me now, but I wasn’t popular. I had a small group of friends in middle school, but when I moved to a new school in grade 10, I struggled to make connections and I was very shy. Many of my classmates were into partying and drinking, but I steered clear of that path. My father’s battle with alcoholism showed me early on that I didn’t want to go down that road, which isolated me further. I got black out drunk once in my life (age 15-trying desperately to fit in) and after that I swore an oath to myself that would be the last. To this day, I held true to that. I spent many recesses and lunches alone—driving away or hiding in the bathroom to avoid feeling like an outsider. Being an outlier at that age leaves a mark. I often, to this day, find myself seeking reassurance. It now makes sense why the gym became such a big influence for me.
By 16 years old, I had a lot of responsibilities—school, tutoring, work, and the gym—while my peers made different choices. I felt left out, but in hindsight, I’m grateful. My addictive personality could have easily drawn me into alcohol or drugs, but instead, it found a home in fitness. I now see that my isolation helped me avoid a path I didn’t want to take.
At 18 years old, I graduated high school and got a job as a personal trainer, which elevated my own training. I wasn’t just casually working out anymore; I knew how to build muscle and stay lean, scientifically speaking. I'm not going to lie, I became obsessed with building muscle, and my genetics were well-suited for it. I often received attention for my physique and strength, and I thrived on it. I had spent my younger years feeling unnoticed, and suddenly, I was being seen as the strong, muscular girl. It felt empowering.
Then, in my young 20's, I entered a serious relationship with a bodybuilder, and that’s when things took a turn. My innocent passion for fitness turned into a disordered obsession. At first, the relationship seemed perfect—we bonded over our shared love for the gym. He encouraged me, made me feel confident, and pushed me to be better. But as our relationship grew more serious, so did his control over me. The more I tried to keep up, the more I felt I wasn’t enough. I never communicated enough with him, but I always knew his eye wondered. It always confused me because he seemed like he really loved me and that he found me attractive, so why would he need another girl if he had me and was satisfied by me? Anytime I would ever attempt to bring up how it made me feel it always ended up getting turned on me as the bad guy (this is when I learned about the power of gaslighting). For years, I became very jelous and obsessed over watching his every move. Flashback: remember when you could see when someone you followed liked someone elses picture? I would always find him liking other girls pictures. Why wasn't I good enough? This always made me feel insecure, an insecurity that still lives with me today. Why didn't I leave you might ask? With toxic relationships, it's not always bad. When it's good it's GOOD, but when its bad it's BAD.
I really wish I could talk to my younger self now. The constant internal competition I had with myself was exhausting. I became obsessed with being fitter, stronger, and more attractive, hoping he wouldn’t look at other women. I worked out six days a week, did cardio daily, and started contemplating on competing in a local bodybuilding show. Aha, that's it. That's what would get him to notice me over the other girls. This is when my relationship with food deteriorated. I told him I wanted to complete and he ethusisatically supported me and became my coach, dictating every meal. We followed a strict "bro diet"—chicken, rice, broccoli, protein shakes. This was a bonding experience for us. My physique improved, but overtime my emotional well-being crumbled. Despite all my efforts, his eyes still wandered, and I felt like I was constantly fighting for his attention.
Food became my secret escape. Whenever he made me feel inadequate, I would binge in private, hiding my eating out of fear that he’d find me less desirable. Over time, the relationship became very toxic. He got heavily into steroids, and the emotional abuse escalated. As his own personal addiction got worse, he tried to isolate me from my family and friends, manipulating and gaslighting me at every turn. He had his hook in me and for three years, I lived in a cycle of love-bombing and abuse, clinging to the few good moments we had.
By the time I found the courage to leave, I was emotionally drained. Breaking free wasn’t easy, and even after the breakup, I struggled with my relationship with food. I would binge eat to fill the void, eating until I was sick and the guilt that followed.... oof. I hired a coach, determined to prove I could compete in bodybuilding without my ex, but that only deepened the trauma.
Looking back, I wish I had left sooner. I wonder how different my life might have been if I hadn’t stayed for those three years. But there’s no going back. My past shaped who I am today. Everything we go through molds us, and we can choose to let it affect us negatively or use it for growth. While there’s much I’ve left out, it’s important to know that I emerged stronger, both mentally and physically. My past isn’t something I can change, but it’s something I’ve learned to own. There’s still trauma I’m unpacking, but I’ve learned so much about myself along the way. If there’s one thing I hope you take from this, it’s that your struggles don’t define you—they shape you. And no matter how dark things may seem, you have the power to break free and build a healthier, happier life.
Did my life get better after the breakup? No, in some ways it got worse. My binge eating became the worst it had ever been. "I'm free! I don’t have anyone telling me what to eat anymore, and I don’t have to hide it!" But I was wrong. I was so ashamed to eat in public, constantly worried people would think I was a pig. When I finally lived on my own, I began to binge—hard. The worst binges of my life. My body composition actually improved because I was still working out intensely, but mentally, I was far from better. The obsession consumed me, and though I became the strongest I had ever been, I was really fighting my inner demons—and the gym was my outlet.
Eventually, something personal happened, and I couldn't compete. But honestly, I’m glad, because that was the moment that broke my momentum and made me reflect on everything. I stopped working with coaches and just tried to eat reasonably and keep up with the gym. Then, 2020 hit—COVID lockdowns. Factory reset. The gyms closed, not for two weeks, but months. This was devastating. I hadn’t gone more than a week without working out since I was 14, and suddenly, my release—my coping mechanism—was gone. I didn’t know how to work out at home after years of bodybuilding and powerlifting!
As exhausting as it is to keep talking about the pandemic, I have to admit—despite how terrible it was for everyone, for me, it felt like fate. Some higher power put this pandemic in place to force me out of the gym. During this time, I met my current boyfriend, Shawn, and for the first time, I experienced what a healthy, loving relationship was like. I began to work out more sensibly, and exercise became about balance, not obsession. I won’t lie—exercise and the gym are still huge parts of my life. But now, I’m no longer consumed by it. I work out to be healthy and capable, not to be the strongest or most muscular person in the room. Am I still strong? Absolutely. That’s a part of me I’ll never give up. But strength means something very different to me now.
And what about my eating, you might wonder? I still have tough days, but I’ve done a lot of self reflection in the last four years. I’ve seen a therapist, sought help, and used my business as an outlet to support others who have been through similar struggles. When someone with a disordered relationship with food hires me as their coach, I take pride in knowing that I’ll never jeopardize their health or contribute to the kind of destructive behaviors I once experienced. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone, because the grip of an eating disorder is no joke.
Addiction is addiction, whether it’s drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling—or even the gym. It’s all rooted in the same pleasure centers of the brain. While I might’ve gone down one of those other paths, my addiction manifested itself in food and fitness. It’s something I’ll always live with. Food can feel like a drug. It comforts us when we’re down and it’s part of our celebrations when we’re happy. But we can’t let food control us. Breaking those cycles of self-sabotage and negative thoughts takes hard work. Will they ever truly go away? That depends on each person. For me, I know that my disorder will always linger deep inside, as trauma often does. But instead of letting it hold me back, I let that demon empower me to grow stronger.
In the last four years, with the rise of social media like TikTok and Instagram Reels, fitness has exploded even more than when I first got into it. It still frustrates me to see young girls and even guys diving into bodybuilding, then becoming coaches, unknowingly opening the door to eating disorders to their own clients. Will everyone who bodybuilds develop an eating disorder? No, but many do—and once those thoughts and behaviors take root, they’re incredibly hard to shake. My goal as a coach is to help people like me break free from those demons. So, what does fitness mean to you? Really think about it. If fitness has been sabotaging you, holding you back, or making you feel ashamed, it’s time to reshape what it means in your life.
Follow this blog as I subjectively share with you the chokehold this disorder has.