And Then Covid Hit

When lockdown was announced in March 2020, without sounding insensitive, I felt relieved. I gained what I thought I always wanted: invisibility. Free from the prying eyes of others, the pressure to live up to their expectations; I could ‘get fat’ and nobody would be able to criticise me - I could do whatever I wanted and not feel judged for it. Away from everyone and everything, I was excited. Convinced, now, my anxieties and insecurities were going to - poof - disappear; life, finally, would fall into place. Ironically, I could not have been more wrong.

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Days before Boris announced what felt like the apocalyptic end, NB went from being sampled in over 10 stores across London, to nothing. Both As Nature Intended and Revital - the two stockists I worked relentlessly on in 2019 - closed as a result of lockdown, and I lost my distributor. It hit hard. Time, energy and effort to acquire all three, and overnight, a chunk of revenue - plus my pride to see NB on shelf - gone. Ocado undeniably was NB’s silver lining. Without them and their support - and all the customers who managed to get through the three hour queue, and buy a jar (or two) - things would have turned out very differently.

Doing only what could be done, overnight we changed tact - we ramped up NB’s online presence. Pouring everything into social media, Facebook ads, newsletter marketing; one weekend we hosted a ‘nut butter Easter egg hunt’, another I took part in a virtual market, which consisted of NB having its own chat room and me being on camera for the whole day just in case any live visitors ‘joined my stand’. Too many times I saw the number go up to one, as soon as I smiled and said hi it quickly dropped back down to zero (think it was the wave). Due to excess stock not being sold - and upcoming shelf-life issues (deja vu) - we were also forced to run a huge campaign to try and flog over 200 jars of Perfect Nut Butter: £2.50 a pot to ensure they did not go to waste (if you can call my own consumption that).

Dragons’ Den was postponed, my application frozen in limbo. The producer I had been assigned to, who, I should mention, was amazing at guiding me through the process, was let go within days of lockdown, and I was passed on to a Joe, John, Doe. After the nth time of chasing, I gave up. It got to a point where I cared less about whether I got through to the Den or not, I just wanted to know the final outcome. Although, saying this, receiving the news nine months after the initial call in January stung. Moreso because I received not one but two unsuccessful, “thanks for applying", et cetera, emails. I expected it as much as I was disappointed. All that hard work for nothing* - not even heartfelt sincerity or acknowledgement from their side - and I got so close. What a waste!

*Clearly not enough to put me off. I reapplied in 2021 and submitted my pitch - this time filmed from the comfort of my own home - in January 2022. I would be lying if I said I was sad about not making it through to due diligence 2.0, I must have been one of the first applicants to breathe a sigh of relief on hearing the bad news.

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I spent the first ten weeks of lockdown living at home with my parents and sister. For thinking I was free to let my guard down - that was wishful thinking. I defaulted back to the only way of life I knew. Strict rules, disciplined routine; morning workout followed by hitting over a dozen thousand steps daily, often ankle-weighted, in secret - and I had to be productive with NB, do something every working day to feel good about myself, and not like I was letting myself down by doing nothing to progress professionally, or become better personally. Only then once I had done all my relevant checks could I allow myself the reward of relaxing, resting, eating… Although I continued weekly therapy sessions (in an unlit, unused sauna left by the previous house owners - my thinking being, nobody could hear what I had to say, ridiculous unexplainable thought spirals, even if they wanted to), my family challenged me in more ways than I could imagine. Not being able to control them annoyed me; hearing the odd remark about food infuriated me, opinions that really made me think about what I do next; I copied them, a lot; I was scared to be the odd one out. Because if they are not having cheese on their chilli there must be a reason for it, and I refuse to be the only one ‘indulging in this ‘unhealthy’ food’, so I am not having it, either. Even if I really wanted it, it would have tasted better with it, no, G, do the right thing!

Instead of embracing change at this time of uncertainty, or being flexible, approaching the situation with an open mind - mine was very much absolutely closed for business for the foreseeable - I tried to fight it. On the one hand, my rules clashed with theirs. We were all coming from different standpoints. I was trying to move away from diet culture language; I did not want to be exposed to any form of conscious behaviour around food and body image more than my own - especially if their views, what they deemed ‘healthy’ or ‘normal’ was not the same perspective as mine. On the other hand, I had tunnel vision. I never learnt from or felt inspired by the traits I admired - like eating a whole pack of Dairy Milk buttons, or having a jam sandwich - having bread and pasta - double carb-loading - in two separate sittings on the same day? My absolute hero. No, for all the wrong reasons my eating disorder remained my only constant, it continued to give me a way out from my low self-esteem and a purpose for which I could be loved beyond my failing career. I fixated on triggering behaviour and was hyper-aware of how my family’s actions would impact me and my body because that is the only narrative that mattered to me; I chose to listen to what I wanted to hear, I looked for it, even. So when my dad gave up alcohol for the duration of the pandemic, just because, it is no surprise that I contemplated following suit. For no other reason than, alcohol equals unnecessary sugar equals cellulite (equals unattractive, unlovable, die alone). In fact, in 2020 alone, I could count exactly how many days I drank alcohol in that year on two hands, what to me felt like a (very sorry for myself) accomplishment.

Ignoring the fact my family moved effortlessly around me when I was next-level anal, the stroppy (not so teenage) teenager, the problem child. Hard to understand, probably; a negative energy a lot of the time (hangry and impatient to eat, realistically). I never gave my family credit; I never saw me from their point of view. Going back to London in May 2020 was the best decision I could have made - for all of us, I imagine. I needed the space, to be on my own, to be honest. Having recently started my journey to eating disorder recovery - with real ambition to get to the finish line - I was ready to kickstart what I started without being influenced by others. Back on my own turf and terms.