Trauma has a way of leaving its mark, not just emotionally but physically, too. Growing up in an abusive household, I learned early on how to disconnect from my body and feelings. This was a survival mechanism—a way to endure an environment where tuning in to myself wasn’t safe. At the time, this coping strategy served me well, and I’m grateful for it. But as I grew older and began to create distance from that environment, I realized I no longer needed those survival tools. What I needed instead was to reconnect with my body and learn to trust it again—a process that’s ongoing even today.
Movement as Control
For a long time, movement became another way to control my body. I pushed myself hard, often ignoring my need for rest. The harder I worked, the more in control I felt—until I wasn’t. An injury forced me to stop and reevaluate my relationship with physical activity. Was it supporting me, or was it just another form of harm? Slowly, I started exploring movement in a way that brought me joy rather than pain. Some days, that looked like a walk outside while I listened to my favorite music; other days, it was a more intense spin class, and other days it was simply resting. Learning to let go of the all-or-nothing mentality around exercise was a huge step in my healing journey.
Food as a Battleground
My relationship with nourishment was equally fraught. At times, I severely restricted my intake as a way to control my body. Other times, I became obsessed with “eating clean,” which often meant restricting foods I enjoyed in the name of health. Both extremes disconnected me from my intuition and left me feeling deprived and exhausted.
Healing this relationship wasn’t linear—it took time, education, and practice. Learning about nutrition was a critical piece, but so was mindfulness and the slow process of trusting my inner voice again. Today, I aim to nourish myself in a way that feels balanced and sustainable. That doesn’t mean every day is easy or perfect. I don’t wake up feeling body-positive every morning, and I have plenty of days where "nothing sounds good," but I’ve learned to offer my body respect, even on the harder days.
Navigating Hunger Through Emotional Turmoil
A recent experience reminded me how trauma can still affect my appetite and eating patterns. Personal turmoil left me feeling anxious and sad, and my appetite disappeared. Nothing sounded good, and I wasn’t hungry. In the past, I might have ignored my needs altogether, but this time, I chose to approach myself with care.
I made a conscious effort to nourish myself in small, tolerable ways. Even if a full meal didn’t appeal to me, I leaned on small snacks or easy-to-eat foods that felt manageable. I kept myself hydrated, rested, and adjusted my activity level to match what my body could handle. This wasn’t about perfection; it was about showing up for myself as best I could in the moment.
The Many Faces of Trauma
My story is just one example of how trauma can shape our relationship with food and our bodies. Trauma can take many forms, and it affects everyone differently. Some examples include:
Food insecurity: Growing up without reliable access to food can lead to patterns of hoarding, overeating, or extreme restriction. This can also look like deeply rooted feelings around purchasing foods and food waste.
Sexual, physical, or emotional abuse: These experiences can cause us to dissociate from our bodies, thereby losing the connection to our physical selves. This can lead to viewing food and/or physical activity as a means of control.
Sexual or physical trauma: Similar to the bullet above, this can disrupt our connection to the body, thereby muting the body’s hunger and fullness cues or creating feelings of distrust around nourishment.
Medical trauma: Negative experiences with medical providers or being forced into restrictive diets can leave lasting scars around how we view ourselves and approach nourishment and movement.
Grief and loss: The emotional weight of losing someone can suppress appetite or lead to emotional eating. Without mindfulness around our physical bodies, this can lead to further disconnect from ourselves.
Chronic illness or pain: These conditions can complicate eating patterns and make nourishing oneself feel like a burden. Restricting and controlling food and physical movement might feel like the "only way" to control how your body feels.
Trauma isn’t one-size-fits-all, and its effects can ripple into our relationship with food and movement in ways we don’t always recognize at first.
A Journey, Not a Destination
Reconnecting with your body after trauma is a process—one that requires patience, compassion, and a willingness to meet yourself where you are. For me, it’s been about tuning in and learning to trust my body again, even when it feels uncomfortable.
If you’re working through your own relationship with food or movement, know that healing is possible. It’s not about perfection or arriving at a place of constant body positivity—it’s about taking small steps toward respect, trust, and care for yourself.
Wherever you are on your journey, I hope you know you’re not alone.
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About the Author:
Rachel Caine, MS, RDN, LDN, is a registered dietitian based out of Watertown, MA, who specializes in trauma-informed nutrition care, intuitive eating, and building body trust and neutrality. Through her insurance-based private practice, Rachel helps clients reconnect with their physical selves and develop a more intuitive and compassionate relationship with food.
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