Choosing One Small Step Forward: Allie Pendleton on Recovery, Running, and Reclaiming Her Life

For Allie Pendleton, running has never been about chasing perfection or proving worth. It has been about learning how to care for herself, sometimes for the very first time.

As Team Still I Run’s Program Manager, Allie supports runners every day who are using movement as a tool for mental health. What many people don’t know is that her own journey has been shaped by years of disordered eating, anorexia, recovery, injury, and rebuilding a relationship with her body that is rooted in respect instead of control.

Her story is not neat or linear. It’s human. And it’s proof that healing doesn’t come from flipping a switch, but from choosing one small step forward, over and over again.

Early Messages Around Control and Food

Food became complicated for Allie long before she had words for why.

As a child, she had food allergies, and her mother tightly controlled what she ate. That structure, born out of fear and concern, also created an environment where food was rigid, monitored, and emotionally charged. Allie also saw her mother receive attention and validation around her own dietary needs, which quietly shaped how food and control showed up in her own mind.

Those messages didn’t disappear as she grew older. They stayed in the background, waiting for a moment when she needed something—anything—that felt safe and predictable.

The Loss That Changed Everything

When Allie was 13, she left home to attend boarding school. Years later, during spring break of her junior year of high school, her closest friend suffered a health crisis that pulled them apart.

The loss of that relationship was devastating. This friend had been the most constant presence in Allie’s life, and suddenly, she was gone.

Grief showed up physically. Allie lost her appetite. Eating made her feel sick. She was miserable, anxious, and heartbroken. At first, the lack of eating wasn’t intentional. But over time, something shifted.

What started as grief and stress became control.

Restricting food gave her structure. It gave her something she could manage when everything else felt unsafe. It became a coping mechanism, even as it quietly took over her health.

By the time she graduated high school, Allie had lost about ten pounds—significant for her petite frame—and she was no longer well.

College, Misunderstanding, and a Diagnosis That Didn’t Make Sense Yet

Allie arrived at college already deeply unwell. By October of her first year, she went to the campus health center. Her pulse was dangerously low. Her blood pressure was critically low. She weighed 67 pounds.

She was told she had anorexia and needed to stay in the health center. She was shocked.

This was the 1990s, and the narrative around eating disorders was narrow. Anorexia was framed as wanting to be thinner. Allie didn’t see herself that way. She truly believed she had a gastrointestinal issue because eating made her feel physically ill. There wasn’t language yet for how grief, anxiety, and trauma could drive disordered eating.

She spent weeks living in the health center and eventually left school to return home. Because she didn’t yet understand the mental health root of what was happening, she was hospitalized at two different hospitals, searching for a GI diagnosis that didn’t exist.

The real cause was unprocessed grief, stress, and anxiety.

Rowing, Structure, and the Illusion of “Stability”

To return to school the following year, Allie had to meet a weight requirement of 74 pounds. She gained enough to go back, and her rowing coach submitted her for selection as a coxswain for the senior national development team.

That summer was good for her in many ways. Rowing gave her purpose, routine, and connection. Her teammates and coaches were deeply supportive and understood that Allie needed to be in the boat. They advocated for her, even within the constraints of the health center system.

But weight requirements became another form of control.

Every time Allie walked into the health center, she stayed exactly at 74 pounds. The number became a boundary she refused to cross. The eating disorder had shifted from survival to identity.

She cruised like that for a while—functional, but not free.

“How Can I Help?” and the Moment Everything Changed

During her junior year, a roommate sat Allie down and asked a simple question: “How can I help?”

Allie had no answer.

She didn’t know how to eat like a normal person anymore. She was struggling to consume even 1,200 calories a day. Every night, she lay in bed hoping that her heart would hold on and she would wake up the next morning.

When she couldn’t tell someone how to help her, she realized something had to change.

Allie left school and committed to full-time treatment. She went to the library, researched eating disorder programs, and found what was considered the best facility in the country, in Philadelphia. When they told her they were full, she talked her way in. Her dad drove from Massachusetts to Philadelphia to get her there.

She stayed for a month—and she was ready.

She ate everything they asked her to eat. She went to therapy. She showed up fully, because she knew she couldn’t do it alone.

While she was there, she met women in their 40s—a CEO, a police officer—who were still battling anorexia. Allie realized she never wanted to be back in that place. She didn’t want this illness to follow her through her entire life.

She made a pact with herself: she was going to live.

Recovery Is Not a Switch

Leaving treatment didn’t mean everything was suddenly better. Recovery was a long, slow unwinding.

Allie spent a semester researching eating disorders, writing papers, and thinking deeply about what had brought her there. She worked to build healthier coping mechanisms and stuck with recovery even when it was exhausting and uncomfortable.

She wanted a full life. She wanted children. She wanted connection. And she didn’t want to die.

Anorexia impacted her confidence for years. She made choices that didn’t honor her worth because she didn’t believe she had much to protect. There are things she still wonders about—paths she didn’t take, opportunities she missed—but she’s here. And that matters more than anything else.

One of the most healing moments came years later, when Allie discovered her friend’s blog while living in California. Slowly, they reconnected as adults. They had children around the same time, met each other’s families, and rebuilt a friendship that grief once tore apart.

Running, Strength, and a Different Relationship With Movement

Allie started running while she was still sick, but not to lose weight. She ran because she wanted to be strong. She wanted to train alongside her rowing teammates. Running was never a tool to fuel her eating disorder.

Still, the physical consequences lingered. Damage to her bone density led to stress fractures and significant injuries, even after she began recovering. Later in life, she experienced hamstring injuries and surgeries that kept her from running for nearly three years.

That forced pause became another turning point. Without running, Allie had to rely on other coping mechanisms. She learned she could survive without movement defining her identity.

Quiet, Community, and Caring for Herself

Running remains one of the kindest things Allie does for herself.

She describes having a busy brain and a full social life. Running gives her quiet. Early mornings on the road or treadmill are time she doesn’t share with anyone else. It’s where she sets goals, works toward them, and receives positive feedback that feels grounded and real.

At the same time, running is deeply social for her. It’s where friendships have formed and where community lives.

Running didn’t isolate her. It connected her, and, in many ways, helped keep her healthy.

An Ironman Done With Purpose

In her late 20s, Allie worked for Team in Training and eventually led an Ironman team. As part of managing the program, she had the option to fundraise and race.

She decided to do the Ironman—but with one rule.

She would do the most mediocre training possible.

She followed her coach’s plan and did the bare minimum. She resisted the urge to overdo it, to prove something, to chase perfection. For her, the Ironman wasn’t about pushing limits. It was about restraint.

Crossing that finish line became an ending.

“I’ve done it,” she told herself. “I’m healthy. I’m caring for myself.”

That was the moment she knew anorexia no longer had control.

Advice for Anyone Struggling

When asked what she would say to someone navigating disordered eating, Allie doesn’t offer easy answers.

“Work on figuring out the root of what got you to this point,” she says. “You can’t unwind something if you don’t lay bare what got you here.”

She also emphasizes self-compassion. Eating disorders exist for a reason. They are coping mechanisms. Pretending otherwise makes recovery harder, not easier.

And finally, she encourages faith in yourself.

“Get up every day realizing that today could be the day you take one step forward.”

Choose one little thing. Every day.

There Is Another Side

Anorexia is the deadliest psychiatric illness. One in ten people with anorexia die from it. Allie knows how rare her outcome is, and she doesn’t take it lightly.

She is firmly rooted in the fact that she recovered.

She eats what she wants. She cooks elaborate, joyful meals with her wife. She has a daughter. She runs. She rests. She lives.

“There is another side,” she says. “But it takes work. You have to value yourself just enough to start.”

And sometimes, that’s the bravest step of all.