I sat in the room with my hands awkwardly fidgeting in my lap. Wiping away the humidity and sweat that my palms were creating, trying to ignore the insistent pounding of my nervous heart racing.
I knew it was my turn next. I knew what God was calling me to do but the very thought terrified me. It was 2009, and I was in a small room in Peru surrounded by around 20 faces of other teenagers who had given up their summer vacation to serve on a mission trip in Peru.
Our team had gathered to start the process of sharing testimonies and after a friend of mine had shared, I knew God was impressing on me to share my own story. I can’t recall if I had ever shared it before—perhaps with a close friend or two—but I had never admitted the reality of my struggles with food in front of a huge group before; not to mention in front of men.
There were a few moments of silence where the team waited to see who would deciede to be vulnerable and share next. I remember interupting the silence as I shouted something weird along the lines of “Okay, I guess I haveto share.” As the team laughed at my unwilling boldness, I told them that I didn’t want to share but felt like God really wanted me to. It was in that room that I told my truth and detailed the ways in which I battled through bulimia as a teenager. After sharing what I had experienced, I remember