Brecken’s Big Bite: Overcoming ARFID One Adventure at a Time

Okay, so let me just say this: I am NEVER returning to Scout Camp. Like, ever. I’d rather lick the bottom of my gym shoes after track practice than do that again. It wasn’t even the bugs, sleeping bags, or weird noises at night. It was the food. Or, actually, everyone else’s reaction to me and the food. Every meal turned into a game of “Let’s See If Brecken Will Eat It.” Spoiler: I didn’t. So, I just got home today, and I’m not even kidding—my stomach is still doing backflips. Not from eating too much, but because I barely ate anything the whole week. The other guys in my troop kept saying stuff like: “Dude, just eat it. It’s not that bad.” “Stop being dramatic.” “I’ll give you my Skittles if you try one bite!” Yeah. Like a rainbow, candy bribe was gonna help me eat chili that smelled like old socks and cat food. I told them I couldn't eat it, but they thought I was being picky. One kid even called me Brecken the Food Weirdo. Cool nickname, right? (NOT.) And honestly, the leaders weren’t much better. They’d say things like, “You’ll never know if you like it unless you take a bite,” or try to bribe me with extra dessert if I’d just eat “one normal meal.” Sometimes, they’d give each other a look like I was being difficult on purpose. It felt like every meal was a game called “Let’s Fix Brecken,” and I was the only one who didn’t want to play. If you’re wondering, yeah, Brecken’s my real name. Not “Breakfast” or “Breckinator” or any of the other nicknames people have tried out on me (thanks, my friend James-he’s got a nickname for everyone). My mom picked the name Brecken because she said it sounded strong and a little different, which pretty much sums up our family. It’s just the two of us at home most of the time unless you count my collection of hats and unopened Hot Wheels cars. I started collecting them with my dad, and we are still searching for new ones whenever we hang out. My parents are divorced, but they actually work together pretty well when it comes to me. No big drama or anything, just two grown-ups who want me to be okay. Even though I’m way too old to play with toy cars, I like lining up the boxes on my shelf, remembering which ones we found together. Mom says my room looks like a hat shop crashed into a tiny car dealership, but it’s pretty cool. After a week like camp, seeing all my stuff in its usual place made me feel a little more normal again. So, when I finally got home, I dropped my camp gear, went straight to my room, and collapsed onto my bed, relieved to finally be back in my own world. Then, my mom—Abigail—came in and sat next to me. I didn’t even try to act tough. I just started crying. Like, full-on Ugly Cry Level 10. She didn’t say stuff like “Toughen up” or “You’ll be fine.” She just let me cry, which honestly made it worse in a weird way. But also better? I don’t know; it wasn't very clear. I finally told her everything. How the food at camp made me feel sick just looking at it. How everyone stared at me like I had three heads when I skipped dinner. How I felt like something was wrong with me. And then I asked her the question I was kinda scared to ask: “Mom… why am I like this?” She just looked at me and said, “We’re gonna figure this out, Brecken. I promise.”