– by Ryan Lipsett
Next Gen Youth Advisor
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
If you met me a few years ago, you probably would have seen someone who looked "fine." I smiled when I needed to, went to school, spent time with friends, and tried to blend in. What you wouldn't have seen was the constant battle happening in my mind.
I lived with Body Dysmorphic Disorder (BDD), and for a long time, I didn't even know there was a name for what I was experiencing. I became consumed by the belief that there was something wrong with the way I looked. I would spend so much time analyzing my appearance, avoiding mirrors one moment and compulsively checking them the next. Every reflection felt different, and none of them felt right. It became exhausting.
BDD didn't just affect how I saw myself, it affected every part of my life. It isolated me from friends, made social situations overwhelming, and convinced me that everyone around me noticed the flaws I couldn't stop thinking about. I canceled plans, withdrew from people I cared about, and felt trapped by thoughts that seemed impossible to escape.
For a long time, I believed I was alone.
One of the hardest parts of living with BDD was how little people talked about it, especially among men. Even within conversations about mental health, I rarely heard anyone mention body dysmorphic disorder. I wondered if anyone else understood what I was experiencing. That silence made it even harder to reach out.
What began to change everything for me was finding community.
Hearing other people share experiences that sounded so similar to mine was something I'll never forget. For the first time, I realized I wasn't "crazy," and I wasn't the only person whose mind distorted the way they saw themselves. Peer support didn't make my BDD disappear overnight, but it gave me something I desperately needed: hope.
Knowing that other people understood without judgment made it easier to be honest about my own struggles. Their stories reminded me that recovery wasn't about becoming perfect or never having difficult days, it was about learning that my thoughts didn't have to control my life.
My own journey also included professional support. Therapy, medication, and learning healthier coping strategies all played important roles in my recovery. It wasn't a straight path. There were setbacks, frustrating days, and moments when I questioned whether things would ever get better. But little by little, they did.
As I became more comfortable talking about my experiences, I realized how powerful sharing our stories can be. Today, I have the privilege of speaking about mental health through organizations like NAMI, where I share my experiences with anxiety, depression, and BDD. What once felt like something I had to hide has become one of the ways I can help others feel less alone.
Advocacy hasn't "cured" my BDD, but it has transformed how I see it. Instead of carrying shame, I now use my experience to challenge stigma and remind others that mental illnesses deserve understanding, not judgment. Every time someone tells me, "I thought I was the only one," I'm reminded why these conversations matter.
BDD Awareness Day is important because awareness creates recognition, recognition creates understanding, and understanding helps people reach out sooner. The more we talk openly about BDD, the more likely someone struggling in silence will realize there is a name for what they're experiencing, and that effective treatment and support exist.
If you're reading this and struggling with BDD, I want you to know that you are not alone. Even if your mind is telling you otherwise, you are so much more than the thoughts BDD feeds you. Recovery doesn't mean every difficult thought disappears. It means those thoughts no longer define who you are or determine how you live your life.
There is hope. There are people who understand. There is help available.
If sharing my story helps even one person realize they aren't alone, then every difficult step along my journey has been worth it.
Leave a Reply