Wrestling has always been a sport of grit, discipline, and strength—both physical and mental. But for Leah, what began as a passion quickly became a painful battle between loving the sport and hating what it demanded of her body.
Leah first stepped onto the mat in middle school. She was one of the only girls in her wrestling program, but her fire and determination made her stand out. She was fast, technical, and smart—qualities that earned her the respect of her teammates and coaches early on. Wrestling gave her a sense of purpose, a place to channel her energy, and a reason to push herself harder each day.
But what it also gave her—quietly and gradually—was a warped sense of her body and food.
Like many in weight-class sports, Leah learned early that weight could make or break your chances of success. “Make weight” became more than a goal; it became an obsession. The pressure to cut pounds for a match started small—skipping a meal here, drinking less water the day before a weigh-in—but by high school, it had taken over her life.
She remembers sitting in the locker room with her head between her knees, trying not to faint before a match after days of restricting food and sweating out water weight. Coaches praised her toughness. Teammates joked about “cutting season.” No one ever stopped to ask how she was really doing.
“I thought it was normal,” Leah says now. “Everyone was doing it. Everyone was miserable. And if you complained, you were seen as weak. So I kept pushing.”
But what made things worse for Leah was that, even when she made weight, the comments didn’t stop. She wasn’t “lean enough.” She wasn’t “defined enough.” For a girl in a male-dominated sport, every move she made was scrutinized. She had to be strong—but not too bulky. Agile—but still compact. Athletic—but still “feminine” enough not to be teased.
This tightrope she walked broke something inside of her.
Leah’s eating habits became more extreme. She started to restrict even in the off-season. She stopped enjoying food altogether and began to see meals as the enemy. When she did eat, guilt flooded her body and mind. She trained twice as hard to make up for it, punishing herself in silence.
What made it even harder was the silence of those around her. While some coaches encouraged the unhealthy behaviors directly, others simply turned a blind eye. The culture of wrestling, especially for young women, was not built to support vulnerability or prioritize mental health. Leah didn’t have the words to explain what she was going through, and even if she did, she wasn’t sure anyone would listen.
By the time she entered college, Leah had stopped wrestling. The physical toll was too much, but the emotional weight was even heavier. Without the structure of practices and matches, she felt lost. And worse—her relationship with food had not disappeared with the sport.
There were days she barely ate. Others where she ate everything in sight out of panic and fear, only to fall into a spiral of shame afterward. She didn’t know who she was without wrestling—and the disorder that had wrapped itself so tightly around her identity.
But slowly, Leah began to reach out. She started by following recovery accounts online, reading about others who had similar stories. She found a therapist who understood the connection between athletics and disordered eating, and began to unpack the years of damage that had been done—not just to her body, but to her sense of self.
She also started lifting weights again, but for a different reason this time.
“I go to the gym now not to shrink myself, but to feel strong,” Leah says. “It’s not about punishment. It’s about reclaiming my body.”
She still wrestles with guilt some days, especially around food. The voice in her head—the one that tells her she’s eating too much or not training hard enough—hasn’t gone completely quiet. But she’s learning to talk back to it. She’s learning that rest is not laziness, and that nourishment is not a weakness.
Leah now volunteers with youth wrestling clubs in her area, working especially with young girls. She teaches them the importance of fueling their bodies and encourages open conversations about body image, health, and recovery. She’s become the role model she never had—a voice that says, “You are enough, just as you are.”
Her story isn’t one of overnight transformation. Recovery, she admits, is messy. But it’s real. And it’s worth it.
“To anyone struggling in silence like I did,” Leah says, “you are not alone. And you don’t have to choose between your sport and your health. You deserve both.”
Leah’s fight isn’t over. But she’s not fighting herself anymore. She’s fighting for the life she wants—and the strength to live it on her own terms.