
Recently, after expressing my views on the eating disorder community and its many dysfunctions, I was informed by an “eating disorder advocate” that I only had “righteous indignation.” In the past, this same person also opined that I was in the eating disorder community solely to make money.
Righteous indignation? Solely to make money? Let me answer both plainly: my anger is earned, and my motives are grief-forged — not mercenary. I paid my entry fee into this dysfunctional community with the dearest blood possible: my daughter’s. I did not come here to be liked, or to join the chorus of vapid, comfortable, egomaniacal voices. I came because someone I loved was ripped from life. Silence would be complicity.
Make no mistake, there are some incredible, soulful, intelligent, compassionate souls in the eating disorder community. Unfortunately, they largely remain silent, on the sidelines. Fearful of being ostracized or cancelled by the hate filled, social justice warriors.
I wish with every fiber of my being that I was not in this decaying eating disorder community. I wish that I did not know even one person in this horrifically comical, appalling community. For that would mean my daughter, Morgan lived. But since she died, I will allow my “righteous indignation” to illuminate what having a beloved child ripped from life is like.
Sunday nights in an intensive care unit in a hospital in a large city can be very quiet. But, not for you. You hear the ear shattering blaring of alarms, screaming out “Code Blue.” Death is sounding for your daughter. Death has come for you!
With panic in your eyes, you look into her room and cannot even count the number of hospital employees trying to bring her back to life. For at that moment, she is dead. Her heart is not beating. And you feel nothing at that point. The greatest fear a parent can face has you in its powerful, icy grip. Your brain has stopped working. You are not aware of anything… except the frantic efforts to bring her back to life. Finally … they detect a faint heartbeat after nine excruciating minutes.
Do you know what it’s like to have your child dead for 9 minutes while you look on helplessly? It is a lifetime. You are drenched in sweat. You are aware of nothing. Except … for the briefest of times, she is living again.
Until once again … she dies … and you again hear those horrific alarms of death. Again … her room is filled with employees doing all they can to bring her back. You are numb. Your entire world is in that room … on that incredibly dark night. And once more … they briefly bring her back.
That is when the doctors pull you aside and tell you … each time it is more difficult. You ask if she feels any pain. They cannot give you a straight answer. They tell you that in all likelihood, there is already substantial brain and organ damage. You ask them if there is truly any hope. They cannot look you in the eyes and are mumbling non-answers. And you know. You know. You are faced with the most difficult decision any person will ever have to make.
You remember one time in the past, your beloved daughter saying … “Daddy … don’t let me die.” And you know, you know, for an absolute certainty … that your life will never be the same. You wonder if you can ever forgive yourself for betraying those sacred words.
There is nothing performative about that grief. It is not a credential.
You slowly nod your head and quietly, while tears are pouring down your cheeks, say … no more alarms. No more bells. She will go in peace.
You sit next to her, holding her hand, praying for a miracle … knowing that one will not come. Finally, you hear those words which rip the heart from any parent … “She’s gone.”
You slowly walk down the dark hospital hallways. Sunday nights can be quiet in a hospital. You go to a waiting room where your daughter’s mom is waiting with friends. You can’t say the words… only shake your head. And you hear that heart wrenching scream of anguish. And yet, you feel nothing.
Your life as you knew it … is over.
You live in a fog. Making funeral arrangements, service arrangements. You feel nothing. Food has no taste. Your soul is numb. You wonder if you even want to wake up.
But you find a way, some way, to wake up and to keep living. Now, imagine that for most of your professional life, you had been a shallow, superficial, asshole. An attorney without a soul. But something has awakened within you. You begin to feel driven. Perhaps for the first time in your life, you are aware of something far greater than you.
In your daughter’s name, you only want to make a difference. You want to help others. But you are so broken. You make mistakes. You live in a constant state of guilt and shame. Nonetheless, you pledge to help others. And so, you try.
You then discover in the eating disorder community, children’s lives are being reduced to talking points, a and mortality is sidelined in favor of crowd-measuring. You read that this is no place for thin, white people to jump in. You realize that families are being betrayed by radical activists who only wish to parade their own ignorance and internal pain. Nonetheless, you continue to try. You try to serve.
You give two TEDx talks on eating disorders.
You organize and with a medical doctor, present a talk to Apple … and its 150,000 employees. The talk was broadcast on Apple’s North American network.
You organize and with that same medical doctor, present a talk to Raytheon … and its 75,000 employees. Also broadcast on its national network. This talk was so informative and compelling that the Raytheon office hosting it won a national corporate award for collaboration with the community.
You organize and present a 30-minute segment every week on a local radio station entitled, the Mental Health Moment. You have national experts on mental health appear on your show.
You appear on the local CBS and Warner affiliates talking about eating disorders.
The methodist church you belonged to does a video on your daughter and her struggles. With over 300,000 views, no other videos this church has done comes even close.
You speak to school district’s counselors and nurses. You organize presentations to communities. You visit young people in treatment programs. That is still not enough.
You are still living in a twilight that knows not joy, nor love, nor happiness.
Because you do not check the correct political and social boxes, because you frighten people, the eating disorder community turns on you. Have you made mistakes? Hell yes.
But it gets worse. Just five years ago, your father, your mother and your older brother all die within 14 months of each other. Your brother was the picture of health. And he only trusted you to tell the doctors to end his bodily functions. Imagine that much death in such a short period of time.
At that moment in time, your son and his wife have a baby. Imagine the very first time you hold your granddaughter in your arms, you have to tell your son you are flying to Florida the very next day to tell doctors to remove life sustaining equipment from your brother.

You know the eating disorder community doesn’t care. You frighten them because you do not play their pedantic games. You care about life and death not social justice and political statements.
And so, your mindset begins to evolve. You see the vile, on-going corruption in the community. You see the illness which claimed your daughter’s life being used as a platform to spew forth the community’s social justice and political viewpoints. And you reach a point where you say … enough!
Donors to NEDA come to you so angry that NEDA is being turned into a social justice and political side show by Chevese Turner and her social justice warriors. You have the ability and skill to take action. But first, you give NEDA almost 20 opportunities to talk before you file suit. An expeditious settlement is reached, a settlement which also financially benefits research into the genetic aspects of eating disorders. And yet, the very person who attempted to destroy NEDA’s purpose, skates by with no tangible consequences. She knows that her minions and cohorts in the community will continue to breathe life into her. Consequences and ramifications are foreign to the eating disorder community.
Undeterred, you go after more inappropriate conduct in the community. You see the specter of death appear in the words, “Terminal Anorexia.” Like many others, you are horrified. University-based professors write neatly composed articles opposing it, articles which accomplish nothing. Nothing tangible is being done.
So, you take action. You file a number of medical board complaints. That changed everything. You meet Dr. Jennifer Gaudiani and look her in the eyes. Much to your surprise, you do not find a monster. Instead, you find a professional. A soul. A human being. A person then in pain. You talk. And then collaborate with many others. What grew from that hard work was not triumphalism but human connection: colleagues turned collaborators, pain turned toward repair. And maybe … just maybe, you find through adversity a greater understanding about life and death. You realize that the manner in which we face death is just as important as the manner in which we face life.
Then, there is iaedp. The corruption and stupidity in that organization were and are legion. And the eating disorder community DID NOTHING. It cowered. The rot there was obvious and long tolerated. You initially do not pursue headlines and seek to meet and resolve all issues privately. That outreach is rejected. So, professionals in the community request action. The result: past due taxes, penalties and interest in the hundreds of thousands of dollars are being required to be paid. Board certification is being reformed and made more affordable. Individual chapters are gaining their independence. Thousands of therapists are now being spared needless expense. The community has improved — slightly, imperfectly — and for that action, very, very few people have said thank you. Predictable.
You are not finished. Not nearly. You expose how Chevese Turner and others of her ilk took down the Legacy of Hope. And for their misconduct, they have been rewarded and still have a voice. The community blindly accepts those who think like they do. Contrarily, you continue to exist. Living with the greatest heartache possible.
No matter how many times textbooks say, “it’s not a parent’s fault,” or some vacuous therapist tries to convince you of that, they fail. They haven’t lived it. They don’t live with the daily pain, the heartache. The anguish.
I do. Every … single … day.
I have made mistakes, and I will make more in the future. Grief is not a moral compass. But the stubborn refusal to confront corruption, the eagerness to defend the performative rather than the practical, that is the real moral failure. When children’s lives are reduced to talking points, when mortality is sidelined in favor of crowd-measuring, the community betrays the very people it claims to serve.
So — righteous indignation? It is paid in blood and sleepless nights. It is the only honest response left when an industry cloaks politics in the language of care and ignores the medical science in front of it. If you are offended by my anger, consider why the community has earned it.
I do not wish to be part of this community. I wish — every day — that I did not know anyone in it. I wish my daughter, Morgan, were alive. I mourn her constantly. My activism is not grandstanding; it is grief turned toward accountability, toward saving the next life.
If you call that righteous indignation, so be it. I am guilty as charged. And I will keep speaking and acting until this feckless culture chooses truth over theater.
So … righteous indignation?
A brilliant light was extinguished in Dallas on October 30, 2016. That tragedy is the ledger against which I measure every day. Righteous indignation is paid with the dearest blood possible — and I will not apologize for the balance I keep.








