On food, freedom, and finding a healthier middle ground
I used to go to bed hungry — and feel proud of myself.
That hollow ache in my stomach meant I hadn’t overeaten. Sometimes, it meant I hadn’t eaten enough at all. But I wore it like a badge of honor. I’d lie in bed with my stomach rumbling, almost convinced I could feel the weight melting off. I stuck to 1200 calories a day (or less), and lived off of Lean Cuisine meals for lunch — no sides, no snacks.
Looking back, I know that wasn’t a healthy way to live. Sure, I lost nearly 120 pounds in 18 months. But living in deprivation wasn’t any healthier than the way I lived before — and sometimes still do — in overindulgence. Isn’t undereating just as harmful as overeating? Starving my body of calories and nutrients wasn’t discipline; it was another form of imbalance.
Yes, I felt skinny. I felt fucking fantastic. But I also felt deprived. There was joy in liking my body — but gone was the joy of food. I wasn’t enjoying anything anymore. Sharing meals, savoring treats — those small pleasures were missing. And back then, I had stripped it all away.
This is where the line needs to be drawn. This is where balance has to step in.
I should be able to enjoy dessert. Chocolate. A dinner out. Life is short, and we only get one. I won’t shame myself for indulging sometimes. Food brings joy — and for me, dessert is part of that joy. The problem is, lately, I’ve been swinging too far the other way.
Stress eating has crept back in. Going back to work as a mom of two has been a lot harder than when I returned four years ago with just one. And at the end of a long day, after the kids are finally asleep, I want something — a sweet, a show, a quiet book and a cookie. I’m not giving up that small pocket of peace, but I know I can be more mindful. One cookie can be enough. I don’t need three.
Back when I lost all that weight, I lived in fear of treats. I’d shame myself for even wanting a cookie, convinced one bite would undo months of work. It didn’t, of course. But over the last six years — with two pregnancies, the chaos of motherhood, and plenty of exhaustion — a lot of that weight has crept back on.
Now, I’m determined to lose some of it again. But not like before.
No more diets. No more starvation. No more 1200-calorie days. I won’t go to bed hungry — but I don’t want to go to bed stuffed either.
What I want is something I’ve never really had: balance. Enough food to feel full, but not uncomfortable. Enough indulgence to feel joy, but not guilt. I’ve lived at both extremes: restriction and excess. Zero cookies or a whole sleeve of them. Never just one.
I know myself — I’m an all-or-nothing kind of person. I don’t buy one book; I buy ten. I don’t eat one bite; I eat the whole thing. But I also know that both extremes leave me feeling like I’ve failed.
So I’m trying something different.
I’m working out 4–5 days a week. I’m not dieting. The weight is coming off — slowly, yes — but it is coming off. And more importantly, I feel better. Stronger. More capable.
I’ll still indulge when I want to. I’ll enjoy dessert, because that matters to me. But I’ll also listen to myself and stop when enough is enough.
This isn’t a post to tear myself down. My eating habits aren’t perfect — but they’re improving. And that matters more than perfection.
Diets are just as unhealthy as overindulgence, even if society doesn’t always see it that way.
The truth is: I’m not on a diet. But I am getting healthier. I wake up early every morning, sweat dripping down my back on the treadmill. My kids watch me move my body. They cheer me on. They’re learning from me. And I’m learning, too.
Even though I haven’t “figured it all out,” I’m treating my body better than I have in years. I feel stronger. I’m setting goals. I’m showing up. I’m dreaming of races again.
So here’s to strength. Here’s to movement. Here’s to dessert.
Here’s to feeling good — without a damn diet.
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