The Cost Of Cutting Weight: The Dilemma Of Normalized Disordered Eating In Sports

When I looked up the CNN article on UFC fighter Brian Ortega’s recent health complication, I didn’t quite expect the reflections it would bring.

If you haven’t heard the story, which, in all honesty, wasn’t on my radar either, Ortega was set to weigh in for his fight against Aljamain Sterling in Shanghai in August.

The fight was going to take place in the 145-pound featherweight division, but Ortega was exceeding the weight limit.

Ortega later wrote on Instagram: “(I was) confused on how my body wasn’t really pouring out the water or why it was just holding it in.”

He spoke about the effort he put in to quickly try to drop the water weight in time for weigh-ins, spending just 20 minutes on a stationary bike before dismounting and immediately going unconscious.

Ortega said, “During that time, they were putting ice on me. They took all my clothes off. They left me in boxers. Woke up in the ER. I ripped everything off. I tried to speak, I couldn’t really translate to them because, if they don’t take everything off, I’m gonna take it off myself.”

So he did, he removed everything on his own and made it just in time for weigh-ins, looking noticeably sick and dehydrated after the intense toil he put his body through to be there.

A story like this brings up a lot of considerations.

Notions of how much danger is too much danger? Has society developed this sort of acceptable “disordered eating” in the name of athletic performance?

I think of the athletes I knew in high school who would skip lunch and live off meal replacement shakes because there was a game, meet, or competition that weekend.

My high school didn’t have combat sports, but I saw the way the track athletes pushed themselves to borderline unhealthy limits to make sure they were light or fast enough to keep up.

I saw the way cheerleaders were subjected to unspoken standards to maintain a certain physique. I see this in kids as young as middle school. Comparing themselves to their peers, not in the drive to improve and put the work in, but in their physical appearance.

Something twinges in my heart when I hear 11 to 13-year-old girls in middle school basketball talking about cutting carbs and meeting their protein goals. And though there’s nothing wrong with adopting healthy eating habits, I wonder if girls that young should worry so much about skipping out on ice cream at a friend’s birthday party.

Outside of sports, Ortega’s behavior could lead to hospital visits, intensive counseling, and therapy with food. Something that can take years of someone’s life to do.

And in the end, the extreme strain he put on his body not only failed to get him the numbers he needed, but also didn’t secure him a win.

Ortega lost his fight by unanimous decision over five rounds.

Which leaves bigger questions for all of us: Why are the same disordered eating signs that would get one person hospitalized praised as hard work and dedication in athletes?

Why are we allowing our young children and teens to harm their relationships with food and potentially their health long-term? Especially when not all of them are guaranteed to continue pursuing sports in their futures?

Until we confront these questions, athletes and children alike will keep paying the price.