Six years on from covid and my body still feels like
it's in lockdown mode. Less movement.
Four stone heavier. I've hit midlife. So
has my midriff.
I've tried every diet under the sun. Calorie
counting. 80/20. Protein shakes. They all
worked at first. They always do. Until they don't.
Eventually they became unsustainable, and I
ultimately regained what I'd lost. Sometimes
threefold.
I'd lose 6lb. I'd gain 4. I'd lose 4lb and regain 6.
It was a vicious circle. I was fighting a constant
battle.
Somewhere along the way, after all the plans
and resets and "I'll start again tomorrow," my
body started to regress. I didn't feel hungry
anymore. I'd skip breakfast. Skip lunch.
I didn't bat an eyelid. I wore it like a
badge of pride.
At 2pm I'd check the clock and make another
coffee to tide me over. That quiet flicker of
satisfaction - look at how disciplined I am.
4pm would hit and so would my blood sugar.
Suddenly I'd feel shaky, dizzy, sick. Before
I even realised what I was doing, I'd
demolish a whole packet of digestive
biscuits, just trying to stabilise myself.
And it wasn't just the crashes.
My IBS had flared badly. The pain was
immobilising and unpredictable. There were
days when I feared leaving the house in case my
body betrayed me. I would organise my day around
bathrooms and Imodium.
Food had become both my nemesis and the
solution.
The more I restricted, the worse everything
seemed to spiral. My body wasn't calm. It was
in panic mode and stressed.
And somewhere in that realisation, suddenly
my mindset shifted.
Not dramatically. Not overnight. Just quietly.
Instead of waiting for that 4pm crash and burn,
I started to eat regularly. Five times a day. No
excuses. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and two light,
high protein snacks in-between.
At first it felt wrong. I felt like a rebel. I wasn't having
to earn my food. I wasn't proving anything.
But slowly, my body began to regulate.
The crashes softened. The dizziness eased.
My sleep started to improve. The restless legs started
to settle.
And to my surprise, the weight started to move too. Five
pounds in just over 2 weeks. Nothing extreme. Nothing
intense, just slow and steady.
I used to want fast weight loss. The trouble is the faster
the loss, the quicker the gain. I'm tired of fighting the
same weight, day after day, week after week, year after
year, decade after decade.
One pound per week equates to fifty two pounds per year.
That's a whopping three stone 10lbs. That's consistency,
that's results. That is true health.
I no longer wait for the blood sugar dip. I eat at set times.
Regular intervals throughout the day, with not a digestive
biscuit in sight.
For years, holding it together meant tightening the reins.
Making yet another coffee. Waiting it out. Power naps.
Proving I didn't need breakfast. Proving I was
disciplined. Proving I was smaller.
It turns out that I was just tired.
Now holding it together has a different vibe. It
looks like eating before I crash. Like packing a snack before
I leave the house. Like refusing to let fear organise my life.
It's not dramatic. It's not a glow-up. It's just slow and steady.
I'm done wearing hunger like an Olympic sport, No more
gold medals for self-denial.
If that makes me undisciplined, so be it.
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