Anorexia Nervosa

The first thing I noticed about most eating disorder recovery apps was how clinical they felt. Sterile screens, charts, numbers everywhere — they had the warmth of a waiting room. I'd open one to actually support my recovery and somehow close it feeling worse: smaller, more like a patient than a person. Honestly? Some of them were just kind of depressing to look at.

My own recovery hasn't been a straight line. I was diagnosed with anorexia, and over time it shifted into bulimia — the way these illnesses so often move and change shape. For a long stretch, recovery felt less like healing and more like being managed: appointments, plans, being measured and monitored. What I kept needing, and almost never found, was something that met me like a person having a hard time — not a case to be tracked.

And I understand why these tools are the way they are — a lot of them are built by clinicians, for good reasons. But recovery doesn't only happen in clinical language. It happens in the messy, human, late-night moments, and those moments don't need another chart. They need something gentle.

So I built Fern. The whole idea was to make a recovery space that feels like a deep breath instead of a doctor's office. No numbers to count, nothing to measure or compare — just soft places to check in with how you're feeling around food, ride out an urge until it passes, and reach for a coping tool when things get heavy. I wanted it to feel like a friend sitting beside you, not a system tracking you.

I'm honest about what it isn't: Fern isn't treatment, and it doesn't replace a therapist, a dietitian, or the people who love you. It's just meant to be a kind companion for the in-between moments.

If a recovery app has ever made you feel like a problem to be managed instead of a person worth being gentle with — I felt that too. That feeling is the whole reason Fern exists. You don't have to earn softness. A hard day isn't a failure; it's just a day. And the tools you lean on should feel like they're on your side.