The gun went off, signifying the start of the 5-mile road race on Mother’s Day weekend in May 2016 — and for a moment, I could not move.

A pain in my back, more devastating than anything I had ever felt, held me back. But I pushed past it.

As a breast cancer survivor and world-class triathlete with a slot in the September 2016 ITU World Triathlon Championships in Cozumel, Mexico, I was used to pain. Nothing was going to stop me from running this race.

Everyone shot past me; my body wasn’t cooperating. Still, quitting wasn’t an option. I’d overcome “insurmountable” challenges numerous times in my life through sheer determination. I would finish this race no matter what.

My pace slowed, and eventually I could only walk. Each step was excruciatingly painful, but I put on a happy face, telling everyone I was fine.

After “beating” breast cancer and then rising to the top in triathlon competition — even breaking a world record — I’d become an “overcomer.” My book, Just Three Words, had recently been published, and it was healing and inspiring thousands.

How could I admit something was wrong when so many people looked up to me?

A Life of Hiding

The skill of hiding my feelings began early. I suffered intense teasing and bullying in elementary and middle school, and the negative words from others pummeled my self-worth. Ultimately, the ridicule became unnecessary, as the critical voice inside took over.

In high school, I nearly died from anorexia. I miraculously recovered, only to fall into bulimia in college. My fixation on food led to earning a bachelor’s in dietetics and a master’s in clinical nutrition.

I became a registered dietitian and have helped hundreds through their eating disorders, but for 25 years or more, I suffered in silence with my own. Cloaked in shame, my secret flourished in the darkness, ruining my life.

The Courage to Come Out

It was a diagnosis of advanced breast cancer at age 46 that gave me the courage to begin the long walk out of the dark abyss — to come clean and be healed.

Facing death again — and my fragile humanness through years of chemotherapy, radiation, and multiple surgeries — helped open me to love. It enabled me to throw off the shackles of shame and realize what a blessing life is, how magnificent our bodies are, and how vital we all are to this world.

I believed that I would lose everything if I dared to be vulnerable and expose it all, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Sharing my shame and secrets, embracing my own imperfections, and trusting others to allow them, too, was medicine as potent as my chemo cocktail. I have not once gone back to an eating disorder since.