"I showed up carrying a heart full of hope, and years of pain"

Mia Thompson, who volunteered at this year's Dump the Scales March tells us what the March meant to her, and why she refuses to remain silent about the injustices people with eating disorders face.

Last Saturday, I showed up in London carrying a heart full of hope and years of unseen pain. What I found there was a community who refuse to remain invisible.

If you’re not familiar, I attended the third annual Dump The Scales March, organised by eating disorder campaigner, Hope Virgo and the Dump the Scales team. I was privileged to help out this year, and going into that morning, I didn’t know what to expect — all I knew was that I needed to be there. It was the hottest day of the year so far. Sweat stuck to my skin before we’d even started walking. Still, the turnout was bigger than I expected given such circumstances.

And for a moment I felt comfort- but then reality hit.

I looked around and saw faces — real, breathing people — not just statistics in a report, or a names in a vague headline. Every person there carried something invisible, and suddenly it wasn’t abstract anymore. These weren’t just statistics. These were lives. Stories. Bodies that had been dismissed, disbelieved, mistreated — just like mine. The reality we were protesting against was impossible to ignore: the current eating disorder treatment system is broken. It is underfunded and completely overwhelmed. Decades of under-investment and rationing care have left clinicians forced to make really tough decisions about who is eligible for treatment on a daily basis.

The current ED treatment system reduces people with complex, multi-faceted illnesses to numbers on a scale and the archaic BMI measure is used to decide who qualifies for care and who doesn’t.

This obsession with weight means many of us are caught in a cruel trap: labelled “too healthy” to qualify for support when they desperately need it, and then “too sick” to be treated properly once their condition worsens. And even when when we do make hthe cut-off for treatment, the waiting lists are often so long that people deteriorate even further before they get seen.

It raises an urgent question: if more people had access to early intervention, wouldn’t demand on services ease?

We know that when individuals receive help sooner, they’re less likely to spiral to the point of hospitalisation—easing pressure on the system and offering them a much better chance of long-term recovery.

I heard many stories that day which haunted me. A mother told me how a doctor refused to give her daughter the necessary medical checkups because, in their words, “if she dies, she dies.” This brutal dismissal underscored everything we were fighting against—a system that neglects the most vulnerable patients and leaves families feeling helpless and at a complete loss for how to save their loved one.

As I marched, I realised I wasn’t just joining a movement. I was marching for the version of me who was told to come back when things got worse. For the friends I had lost, and the ones still waiting to be believed.

I was marching because while they’re counting kilos, we’re counting casualties.

We set off together toward Parliament Square—chanting, cheering and holding signs above our heads. Some just wanted to walk in quiet solidarity. A few of us even linked arms. Strangers became companions. Walking collectively with a refusal to let things stay the same. When we arrived, the speeches began. Parents spoke of loss and desperation, while those with lived experience shared the realities they had endured. As I looked around, yes, I noticed grief, but I also noticed fire. These were not just stories- they were demands for urgent change.

As the day began to close, I felt a strange mix of heaviness and clarity. It’s hard to hear the pain in someone’s voice as they speak about being turned away from help, and to know you’ve lived versions of that same pain yourself. But there was also something healing about being surrounded by people who get it. People who have been told they’re too much, or not enough, but keep showing up anyway.

I admit that I left with a lot of questions.; why are we still begging to be believed? Why are eating disorders treated like vanity issues instead of the serious, life-threatening illnesses they are? Why are we waiting for people to nearly die before we step in? But I also left knowing that I’m not alone. None of us are.

If you’re struggling, you deserve help NOW—not when it’s “bad enough.” If you’ve been dismissed, know that your story still matters. And if you’re in a position to push for better care—whether in policy, in your workplace, or in conversations at home, please do. The system won’t change unless we all start demanding more from it. As for me, I’ll keep writing, speaking, marching—whatever it takes to make sure no one feels as invisible as I often do in this system.

Because the truth is: people are dying, and silence is no longer an option.

If you would like to share your story on the Dump the Scales page visit: Share Your Story