When It Doesn’t Get Better: Reflections on Eating Disorders and Gay Identity

When I started my research on the intersection of eating disorders and sexual identity in gay and queer men, I didn’t expect to uncover such raw, transformative stories. Coming out is often framed as a moment of liberation, a step into authenticity, but the reality for many gay men is more complex—often fraught with emotional turbulence, body dissatisfaction, and the struggle for acceptance that can shape our relationship with food and our bodies.

In talking with 15 men who were navigating eating disorders, I wanted to understand how their sexual identity played into their body image and mental health. What I learned, honestly, was profound—and it reaffirmed the need for us to better support these men within our community.

The Weight of the Closet

For many of the men I spoke with, the burden of the closet didn’t disappear after coming out. In fact, it often stayed with them, festering. Keeping their sexual identity hidden meant suppressing their authentic selves, cultivating shame, and constantly seeking approval from others. One participant shared a prayer he’d recite every night:

"Please Lord, let me walk, talk, act, and think like a normal male."

And it wasn’t just internal struggles. Family rejection was a common thread. One man recounted a painful conversation with his father after coming out:

"My dad said, ‘I don’t know where we went wrong in raising you.’ I stayed on the phone with him for another 15-20 minutes, crying and telling him how hard I’ve tried to be this manly man or this straight guy.”

For these men, rejection and internalized shame often led them to food—whether restricting, bingeing, or purging—as a way to manage the emotional chaos.

Coming Out, but Still Conforming

You might think coming out would be a release, but for many, it was only the start of new pressures. Once out, they became more hyper-aware of society’s— and their own community’s—expectations. As one participant put it:

"Before I came out, I didn’t judge my body. I didn’t think negatively about it. When I did come out, I started paying more attention to other gay people.”

The gay community’s obsession with certain body types—lean, muscular, “ideal” bodies—intensified feelings of inadequacy. Another man reflected:

"There are idealized images of what being gay looks like, which generally involve being built or being skinny. And when you look gay, you can more actively be gay.”

This pressure, pervasive within the community, often led to feelings of exclusion, inadequacy, and the sense that your worth was tied directly to how you looked.

The Gay Body Hierarchy

One of the most jarring findings in my research was the way the gay community can be just as harmful as the world outside it when it comes to body image. Participants spoke about a "body hierarchy" where being lean and muscular was the ultimate goal, and anyone outside of that was somehow lesser. One man said:

"I thought I can’t be fat and gay. If I’m gay, then they have to know I can also be normal in some ways."

For others, validation came at a price. Losing weight or achieving that “ideal” body often brought praise from peers, which, in the short term, felt affirming:

"When I lost a lot of weight, my gay friends told me I looked fantastic. That validation made me proud, like I had a life that was worth something."

But validation based on appearance alone can be fleeting—and for many, the rejection from the community, whether in dating apps or even in person, felt like it confirmed their worst fears: that their worth was solely tied to their body.

Love, Dating, and the Perils of Perfection

Romantic relationships, dating, and even sex were often fraught with stress. The constant need to appear perfect for validation—especially on dating apps—added another layer of pressure:

"On dating apps, success is so contingent on your profile picture. It makes validation very surface-level, and you have to cultivate an image that fits on a grid.”

This was especially damaging during intimate encounters, where a single comment could spiral into deeper feelings of insecurity. One man shared:

"I’ve had guys make comments during sex. Those moments fed into my body dysmorphia and triggered big binge episodes."

But not everything was despair. Some found a kind of peace in relationships that allowed them to let go of the need to perform, to present a “perfect” self. One man explained:

"Knowing I’m not trying to impress people and can just be myself has helped me stay out of disordered eating behaviors."

Healing Isn’t Linear, But It’s Possible

The men I spoke with didn’t just expand my understanding about the complexities of body image in the gay community—they reminded me that healing isn’t about achieving some final state of perfection. It’s about learning to live in your body with compassion, not punishment. If you recognize yourself in their words—the relentless self-criticism, the feeling that your worth is measured in pounds or muscle mass—you are not alone. And you are more than your body.

The truth is, no amount of weight loss, definition, or dieting will give you the acceptance you’re really seeking. The men who found peace weren’t the ones who perfected their bodies, but the ones who learned to live in them with kindness. And that’s hard to do alone. If you’ve been working out because you hate your body rather than because you love it, or if food feels more like a battle than nourishment, it might be time to reach out.

Healing starts when we question the narratives we’ve absorbed about our worth. It deepens when we surround ourselves with people who see us as more than an image to be desired. And sometimes, it requires help from someone who understands. If any of this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. I’d be honored to help you untangle the shame and find a new way forward.

Let’s rewrite this story together.