As my family ate heartily, I picked at my plate, breaking pieces of roti into smaller and smaller fragments of dust. The hunger was familiar, almost comforting, and a secret I held onto tightly. After fasting from sunrise to sundown, I cherished the gnawing pit of hunger in my stomach as if it was something that cleansed me from the inside out.
Navigating an eating disorder while Muslim brings a special kind of trepidation. When Ramadan rolls around, it feels like walking a tightrope between devotion and self-preservation. The conflict between honoring a core tenet of Islam and resisting dangerous eating patterns is constant.
For me, Ramadan was traditionally a time of both joy and anguish. On the one hand, I cherished the communal aspects: breaking fast with loved ones, the serenity of late-night prayers, the sense of belonging to something greater than myself. On the other hand, my eating disorder turned fasting into a battlefield. What was supposed to be a practice to purify the soul turned into another mechanism of control, of erasing my body until I felt pure, empty, and worthy. My body begged for sustenance, but my mind recoiled at the thought of food. The small bite of a date at iftar felt like a betrayal, a crack in the rigid control I had maintained all day.
Though Ramadan is supposed to cultivate gratitude, self-discipline, and closeness to Allah (SWT), I often realized, with guilt, that I was fasting for other reasons.
Eating disorders often thrive on the pursuit of perfection and control. In the context of Ramadan, restriction is praised as discipline, which risks reinforcing disordered behaviors for those who are vulnerable. The public nature of fasting intensifies this dynamic, as self-denial is openly celebrated as an act of devotion. The month’s emphasis on purification triggers disordered eating’s morality-driven mindset, reinforcing the idea that consuming less is virtuous.
Research on eating disorders in Muslim communities remains sparse, but what does exist suggests a troubling connection. A study in the Journal of Abnormal Psychology highlights how fasting can exacerbate restrictive behaviors or trigger binge-purge cycles for vulnerable individuals. A review in 2020 also found that 13-55% of adults in Middle Eastern countries are at high risk of developing an eating disorder. These statistics likely underestimate the scope of the problem, as eating disorders are often underreported in BIPOC communities. Over the many years I spent in and out of inpatient and treatment centers in multiple states across the Northeast, I never came across a single person who looked like me.
Though Islamic scholarship on eating disorders and fasting is still developing -- the few studies that explore the relationship between eating disorders and religion are focused on Judeo-Christian traditions -- there is consensus that health takes precedence. Islam’s emphasis on mercy and compassion includes accommodations for those who cannot fast due to physical or mental health reasons. The Qur’an explicitly states, “Upon those who can fast only with extreme difficulty, there is a way to compensate – feed a needy person” (2:184). This verse underscores the importance of flexibility and understanding within Islamic practice. Many ulemas have advised that Islam encourages us to take care of our bodies and preserve our life (hifz al-nafs) first, making seeking medical care for an eating disorder a priority.
Laila Shanaa, a Muslim dietitian based in Rhode Island who specializes in eating disorders, points out the great value of participating in community traditions during Ramadan. She highlights the importance of diversity among providers, stating, “a non-Muslim provider could likely shut down participation with Ramadan unfairly, when perhaps it could benefit the patient to explore participating in a way that is supportive for them. They can still enjoy iftars with peers while nourishing throughout the day and perhaps plan for fasting for a later year.”
Ramadan is a time of transformation, and for me, that transformation has been learning to trust that my body, my mind, and my spirituality can coexist in harmony.
Paradoxically, the more I participated in fasting, the less I ate during suhoor and iftars. I became increasingly involved in cooking and preparing food instead of eating it -- a classic disordered eating behavior -- and I made sure to serve others abundantly, constantly refilling empty glasses and plates. When I did eat, I took small bites, chewed slowly, or even held food in my mouth to spit out later. I was lauded for my generosity and dedication; after all, though mental illness is heavily stigmatized in Muslim communities, fasting for religion is heartily encouraged. As my mind and body grew weaker, I increasingly embraced triggering thoughts, convincing myself that consuming less each day was a sign of the strength of my iman. At the same time, my shame -- for the pride I took in my shrinking body, for the nights I could not sleep from hunger, for the moments I considered breaking the cycle -- was a constant companion. Admitting that I could not fast felt like admitting a spiritual failure, a weakness in the battle against the nafs.
Societal stigma only encourages these thoughts and behaviors. There is a perception that eating disorders center around vanity and, unlike other illnesses where symptoms are more apparent, they are frequently dismissed or minimized early on. There can be a lack of awareness about the mental and physical toll of these conditions, including obsessive thoughts, mood swings, cognitive impairments, heart complications, weakened immune systems, bone loss, muscle wasting, and gastrointestinal damage. Eating disorders are often not considered “real illnesses,” and those who suffer from them are often not deemed “sick enough” to abstain from fasting. It was only when I was admitted to inpatient and residential programs that health professionals and even my parents saw the toll that Ramadan was taking on me. At that point, they explained the importance of abstaining.
Mental health issues remain largely overlooked in Muslim communities, primarily due to stigma and a lack of available resources. A study found that although imams are often the first people that American Muslims turn to for mental health support, they often do not have adequate staffing, training, or resources at their masjids. To make things more difficult, many Muslims consider Islam to be a complete way of life and that choosing medicine or psychological treatment over prophetic wisdom constitutes a lack of piety or faith.
Thankfully, a growing number of mental health professionals, dietitians, and faith leaders are working to address this gap. Initiatives are emerging to create supportive frameworks for Muslims with eating disorders during Ramadan. These include educational workshops, online support groups, and guidance on how to engage with Ramadan in ways that honor both faith and health. Leslie Jordan Garcia, a Certified Eating Disorder Recovery Coach with Project HEAL, says that more dietitians are willing to collaborate with imams to emphasize the permissibility of breaking fast for medical reasons. Organizations like the British Dietetic Association have published resources about how fasting can affect those with eating disorders, aiming to educate both healthcare professionals and religious leaders. The National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders (ANAD) offers Ramadan meal support groups, hotlines, and counseling. Similarly, the Institute for Muslim Mental Health and Naseeha Mental Health Hotline integrate Islamic teachings with mental health practices, emphasizing the importance of seeking help.
As these initiatives grow, they highlight the need for a more expansive understanding of what it means to observe Ramadan. Choosing not to fast, even when it is the right decision, often comes with a sense of loss: loss of participation, loss of identity, and loss of connection to the rhythms of the holy month. Reframing the narrative around Ramadan can help mitigate this loss.
As someone in quasi-recovery, I have found ways to redefine my relationship with Ramadan. Though there are scarce resources from Islamic scholars addressing eating disorders, Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) emphasized the importance of niyat and the diversity of worship forms, saying, “The deeds are considered by the intentions, and a person will get the reward according to his intention" (Sahih al-Bukhari, Vol. 8, Book 78, Hadith 680). Rather than viewing fasting as the sole measure of my faith, I have chosen to keep myself safe and embraced other ways to connect spiritually: deepening my understanding of Islamic teachings and prioritizing my mental and physical well-being. Last year, I woke up every morning to pray Fajr and video call a close friend who had recently reverted so we could study Arabic and read the Qur’an together.
Fasting is a deeply personal act of worship, and for me, finding alternative ways to connect with my faith has let me give myself grace and feel a greater sense of empowerment. It is a process, one that requires constant self-compassion and the courage to challenge deeply ingrained beliefs about worthiness and devotion. This shift has allowed me to begin approaching Ramadan with a sense of peace and gratitude rather than fear and shame. My practice now also includes acts of kindness, such as volunteering at food banks and contributing to mutual aid organizations. It also involves engaging in prayer as often as I can, reading the Qur’an, and reflecting on its teachings.
Ramadan is a time of transformation, and for me, that transformation has been learning to trust that my body, my mind, and my spirituality can coexist in harmony. All too often, I still feel the familiar pull of shame and doubt. Though I now eat more regularly, I still struggle with guilt, rigid rules, and occasional restriction. What I am working on this year is this: my faith is not measured by how much I deprive myself, nor is it negated by the accommodations I need to care for myself. Ramadan has always been about intention, about striving for better. And for me, that means stepping away from the cycle of harm and into a practice that nourishes me.
