In my Italian American family, everything revolved around food. I ate when I was happy, sad, lonely, or scared – and most of the time I was all four. My mom didn't want me to have the struggles with weight that she always had, so whenever she joined a commercial weight loss program (and she joined them all), she would drag me with her. She meant well, but every new plan just made me feel more broken. She would pack me embarrassing diet lunches to bring to school that were quite different from what the other children were eating. On the outside, I smiled and kept dieting; on the inside, I binged in secret and drowned in shame. When I did lose weight, I'd immediately gain it back. I was 250 pounds when I graduated from high school. By the time I was thirty-one, I weighed 325, had diabetes, and hated myself. Fasting and starvation, alcohol, cocaine, pills, more diet programs – I tried it all to control my eating, but control was never the answer. On a sweltering August evening, I walked into my first Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous (FA) meeting drenched in sweat, having tried to hide my body under a heavy raincoat. I was terrified – and desperate. That night, I heard the word “hope.” Recovery didn’t just change my body, it transformed my life. Then, after twelve years of abstinence, I got cocky. My addiction sneaked back in – and for the next two years, I returned to food, alcohol, and drugs. I was so ashamed and too proud to be honest with myself. Eventually, I returned to FA and got abstinent again. I found a new purpose, got married, retired from my job, and began volunteering with drug addicts. Today, at 66 years old, my weight has remained steady for several decades at about 130 pounds. I’m healthy, free, and grateful beyond measure.