Annie’s decision to live did not arrive with fanfare, only a shaky, unwelcome question: “What if I don’t actually want to die?” From there, the transformation was carved out of unremarkable, agonizing moments—forkfuls of food that felt like betrayal, therapy sessions that dismantled the lies she’d built a life around, nights spent arguing with a mind that romanticized emptiness. Strength stopped meaning bones and control, and started meaning staying when she wanted to vanish.

Months later, when she crossed the Chesterfield Half Marathon finish line, there was no cinematic sprint, just steady, stubborn steps. The victory was not the distance, but the quiet realization that her body, once starved and condemned, had become an ally. She now speaks to others still bargaining with their own disappearance, insisting that recovery is not a return, but a rewriting—and that the bravest thing they may ever do is choose to stay.