ms. junie

mama noticed every change of heart, every time your hand tenses around the fork. she pulls her chair closer to you. “baby,” her voice low and soft, “can mama sit with you while it feels heavy?”

with your gaze still fixed on the fork, you give the tiniest nod. mama then gently lays her hand over yours. her grounding and steady touch finally gives your body the safety it needs to glance upwards with wide eyes. mama greets your face with a warm smile as her thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand, forming a space where the fear stops and you begin.

“you don’t have to finish anything today, sweet one,” she says. “not for me, not for anyone. it’s okay if it’s hard. you’re not bad for struggling”

the guilt burns hot in your chest anyway. “i can’t, mama,” you whisper, so quiet it barely reaches mama’s ears.

mama nods, like she was expecting that. “that’s okay, my love. we don’t have to do all of it tonight. maybe we can just try one soft thing together. how about some soup, hm? mama knows you love soup.”

she reaches for the bowl she made earlier, gentle steam curling into the air. she offers it without pressure, just giving you something you both know is safe for your tummy and heart. you slowly sit up, not taking the bowl yourself, like you’re waiting for something else.

mama sees the way you look at her and immediately knows. she grabs the spoon, scooping up the perfect amount of broth and guiding it to your lips.

“that’s it, baby. good job,” she murmurs. you swallow and a single tear drops from your cheek. there’s almost a small smile creaking on your face as mama keeps feeding you. both the soup and her love warming up your body in a tight hug.

you proudly finish your bowl of soup and mama gives you a soft kiss on the forehead, setting the bowl down. “see, love? your body knows how to hold kindness. you gave it a little today, and that’s enough.”

“i’m sorry, mama.. i know it’s not enough…” you whisper between stinging eyes, blinking more tears away.

her hand moves to your cheek, rubbing with a gentle hand. “oh, but it is, sweetheart. enough isn’t about how much. enough is about you being here, letting mama take care of you. one sip at a time. that’s all we need.”

your chest loosens just slightly. mama doesn’t push further. she doesn’t measure bites or count sips. she only sits with you, her presence louder than the rules in your head.

“thank you for letting me care for you,” she says softly, kissing the top of your head. “your body will forgive the rest. i already do.”

mama cleans the kitchen up, then joins you for cuddles on the couch with a movie playing on the tv. the evening plays out with the help of the warmth from before.

[binge ED themes below]

the night comes, and everything starts feeling different. the hunger and panic crash in together, and suddenly you’re on the floor—wrappers scattered, chest tight with guilt. you curl up small, wishing you could disappear.

mama finds you there. she doesn’t gasp, doesn’t scold. she kneels, smoothing the hair from your damp forehead. “oh, baby,” she whispers, “that must feel so heavy.”

you shake your head as the shame boils over. “i ruined it,” you choke out. “i couldn’t stop. i’m disgusting-”

mama hushes you with a kiss to your temple. “no, love. you’re not ruined. your body just got scared and wanted comfort. it doesn’t make you bad. it just means you’re hurting.”

she pulls you in, rubbing your trembling frame. she waits until your breathing slows enough, then offers her hand. when you take it, she helps you up carefully, as if every part of you is fragile. “come sit with mama,” she says.

on the couch, she presses a glass of water into your palms. “here, baby bun. small sips, okay? your body’s been through a lot, my love. water will help it settle.” she doesn’t leave until you drink, her hand stroking your back in steady circles.

“i feel so sick,” you whisper, pressing a hand to your tummy. mama gives your hand a soft squeeze.

“i know, sweetheart..” she tucks a pillow into your middle, giving you something soft to hold. “hug this. let your body calm down. mama’s got you right here.” she hugs you tight.

you cling to the pillow, leaning into her side, face pressing against her shoulder. she rubs slow circles over your hand that rests on the fabric, grounding your body as it processes the intensity of today.

“you’re safe, my darling,” she murmurs. “no one’s angry and you’re not in trouble. not for having too little, not for having too much. mama loves you in all of it.”

when you whimper again, she guides you to lie down, your head on her lap. “close your eyes, sweet one. mama will help you rest. your body can heal better when it feels safe.”

she places a cool cloth on your forehead, humming while her fingers thread through your hair. the nausea begins to fade into a softer ache, less punishing under her care.

“your body deserves kindness no matter what,” she whispers, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. “whether you eat too little or too much, mama will still hold you, still help you through. you don’t need to be perfect to be loved.”

your tears finally slow. your breathing evens with hers. and in mama’s arms, for the first time that day, you believe you might be safe inside yourself again.

mama puts an end to the intense night, reminding you that you can start fresh tomorrow even if that means another stressful day. you know in your heart that you’ll be safe by bedtime because mama’s here with you.