Disordered Eating or Eating Disorder?
Why the distinction is important and also not important at all.
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It’s been a while since I answered a reader question, and this one stopped me in my tracks — in the best way. It’s the kind of question that’s simple on the surface but invites us into a deeper conversation. One about language, identity, stigma, and healing. One I think so many of us are quietly holding in our bodies, even if we’ve never said it out loud.
Here’s the question:
Hi Abbie,
I’ve noticed you typically use the phrase “disordered eating” versus “eating disorder” on the podcast, in your newsletters, and on social media.
I think you’ve also referred to your own experience as both (maybe?), and I’d love to hear more about the difference. I’m often confused about what language to use myself, and now I’m just wondering if you see the two being distinct, or why you choose to use one term over the other.
Thank you so much for what you’re doing — you’ve helped me find so much more ease and calm with food, and I’m forever grateful. Keep doing what you’re doing!
Becca
Thank you for this, Becca — truly. It’s a beautiful and important question, not just because of the terms involved, but because of what’s often underneath the question itself: Do I count? Does my pain count? Am I allowed to ask for help, even if I don’t fit the mold of what I’ve been told “counts” as an eating disorder?
Let’s begin with the textbook distinction.
Clinically speaking, an eating disorder refers to a diagnosable mental health condition, defined by specific criteria in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). These diagnoses include anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, binge eating disorder, ARFID, and others. To “qualify,” you often need to meet a checklist of symptoms, behaviors, and severity measures — how often you’re engaging in certain behaviors, how significantly your body is affected, and how much distress it’s causing in your life. (We’ll get into some of the issues of — and barriers to — diagnoses in this piece).
Disordered eating, on the other hand, is a broader term. "Disordered eating" encompasses a range of behaviors related to food and body image, including restrictive eating, binge eating, and compulsive exercise — but also food guilt, skipping meals, or experiencing the anxiety of “clean eating.” Many of these experiences may not meet the criteria for a clinical diagnosis, but can still have a significant impact on an individual's well-being.
But just because something isn’t “diagnosable” doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
Our culture loves neat categories. We’re conditioned to question if what we’re experiencing is bad enough to deserve help. But bodies, minds, and pain don’t always fit into clean boxes. And the diagnostic model, while useful in some contexts, often fails to capture the full scope of distress — especially in a world that normalizes deeply disordered behaviors under the guise of “wellness,” and also paints a very narrow picture of what an eating disorder “looks like” (more on that later).
I’ve sat with so many people over the years who say things like,
“I don’t think I had an eating disorder…but I track my food in an app and stress about calories in my meals.”
“I never lost my period…but I couldn’t go out to social events without ‘saving up’.”
“I was never ‘underweight’…but I thought about food every second of the day.”
And my response is always the same…