In grade eight, I chose “liposuction and beautifying methods” for my public speaking topic. It began,

“Ladies and gentleman, judges, teachers, and fellow students—all around the world, women aren't satisfied with their appearances. They feel that their noses are too big, their bottoms jiggle when they walk, and their ears stick out too much. Every morning, thousands of women despair in front of the mirror because they don't believe that they are what society considers as ‘beautiful.’”

—Erica J. Schmidt, February 1998, age 12

Growing up, I read ceaselessly. I read while walking the four-and-a-half blocks from the swimming pool to my high school. I read while torturing myself on the Stairmaster, my book propped up on the display so I couldn’t see how many calories I’d burned but could still pump my arms with hand weights. I read in bed. I read at meals. I never wasn’t voraciously plowing through a book. Then I signed up for an English degree.

So many of my friends reminisce of their youth when they used to devour book after book. “What happened?” they wonder. Do we all have ADHD from Instagram reels? Is it our tired thyroids? Vitamin D deficiencies?

In my youth, I invented the This Is It Boyfriend. I believed he was out there waiting for me, at the next café or my first day on a new job. Or magically next to my window seat on a train ride back to Ontario. When I met him, I would know. This would be it. He would lead me out of my perpetual state of angst and longing and sugar cravings and around the corner into a charmed existence of fulfilling my enormous potential plus three-to-seven decades of endless and glorious, good hard fucks from behind. (In my youth, I often conflated these two things). Back when an eating disorder caused me to puke in my mouth, I believed that my This Is It Boyfriend would cure me of this. This Is It wasn’t just a boyfriend. It was a place. In the land of This Is It, I’d be at peace with my life. I wouldn’t obsess over thighs or lunch choices or emails to my deadbeat of the month. I would not obsess.

Nothing’s more boring than other people’s sleep stats. But throw in a few dream recaps and one of the top reasons for being in a relationship is celebrating your sleep performance. That, and having someone to help you take your windows in and out to wash them. And help you put the duvet back in its cover. And drive you to Ontario to attend funerals and other high-pressure family functions. And of course, the groundbreaking sex.

But failing that, what a joy to wake up to daily praise, simply because you managed to sleep. “You cracked 5 a.m. again? Honey, you nailed it. Wow. I’m so proud of you!”

“I had an active childhood,” I always say if ever anyone asks me how I get my biceps. An active childhood, and a professional eating disorder. But on Thursday, March 17, 2011, I swallowed my last spoonful of vomit. I was cured. With the caveat that every morning before breakfast, I needed to crank myself through 1.5 to 2.5 hours of yoga or risk a spectacular emotional catastrophe. Oh well. What’s a little yoga, right?