The Science of Self-Preservation

For most of my life, I have believed that my worth was defined by what I could give to others. I believed that love meant sacrifice, that caring meant putting myself last, that the best way to prove my value was to make sure everyone else was okay before I even considered my own well-being.

I didn’t think it was a problem—not at first. I told myself I was being selfless. That I was doing the right thing. But selflessness, when taken too far, stops being noble. It becomes a slow form of self-destruction.

It wasn’t until my body began to betray me that I was forced to confront the consequences of my neglect. The human body is resilient, but only to a point. Eventually, the warning signs become impossible to ignore. For me, it came in waves—epileptic seizures that stole moments from my memory, the unpredictable nature of functional neurological disorder that turned my own nervous system against me, the cycles of bipolar II that made my mind a battlefield, the relentless grip of generalized anxiety disorder, and the slow but insidious damage of an eating disorder that had convinced me, for far too long, that I did not deserve nourishment.

I have spent countless hours researching these conditions, trying to understand the science behind my own suffering. I have studied neurology, psychology, the intricate balance of neurotransmitters that dictate mood, the way trauma reshapes the brain. The amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for processing fear, is often hyperactive in people with anxiety disorders. The prefrontal cortex, which helps regulate emotional responses, struggles to keep up. In bipolar disorder, the imbalance of dopamine and serotonin leads to extreme shifts between depression and hypomania, making stability feel like an unreachable dream.

And eating disorders? They rewire the brain entirely. Studies have shown that prolonged malnutrition affects the hypothalamus, altering hunger cues, slowing metabolism, and reinforcing disordered thought patterns. Even after treatment, the neural pathways created by restriction or binge-purge cycles remain deeply ingrained, making recovery a constant battle against one’s own biology.

Understanding the science doesn’t necessarily make it easier. But it does make it real. It forces me to see that my struggles are not just a matter of willpower or weakness—they are physiological, chemical, deeply rooted in the architecture of my mind and body. And just as they were formed, they can be unlearned. But only if I fight for myself.

I used to think prioritizing myself was selfish. That choosing to put my health first meant I was neglecting the people I loved. But the reality is, I cannot be there for them if I am barely surviving. There is a reason that, on airplanes, they tell you to put on your own oxygen mask before helping someone else. Because if you pass out from lack of air, you are no good to anyone.

I am trying to apply that logic to my own life.

It is not easy. Recovery is not linear. There are days when I feel like I am making progress, and then there are days when the weight of it all feels unbearable. Days when the exhaustion from seizures leaves me unable to think clearly. Days when anxiety turns my thoughts into an unrelenting storm. Days when the voice of my eating disorder whispers that I am unworthy.

But I have come to realize that self-care is not a luxury. It is a necessity. And it is not always soft or gentle. Sometimes, it is forcing myself to eat when I don’t want to. Sometimes, it is dragging myself to therapy even when I’d rather isolate. Sometimes, it is taking my medication even when my mind tells me I don’t need it.

The human brain is adaptable. It has the ability to form new neural connections, to heal, to reshape itself. This process, known as neuroplasticity, is what gives me hope. It means that even though my mind has been wired for survival in unhealthy ways, I can train it to respond differently. I can teach it that I am worth saving.

And I am.

I may not believe that every day. But I am choosing to act as though it is true, because that is how healing begins.

I do not know what the future holds. I do not know if there will ever be a time when these struggles do not follow me in some way. But what I do know is this: I want to live. And for the first time, I am allowing myself to believe that I deserve to.

I hope that is enough.