82.9 kg. The blue digital readout illuminated the darkened bathroom. I smiled. Down from 83.8 kg a week ago. The temporary plateau now broken. Three 600 calorie fast days in the last five was the price, along with many others over the last few months.
I broke my twice weekly fasting regime in April this year, something I held on to doggedly over the previous five years. It just ‘slipped away’ on our first proper holiday for a long time. My mental resolve was gone. Steak, eggs, pastries, chocolate, ice cream. Who wouldn’t do the same, faced with an all inclusive 5 star resort on the Tenerife beachfront.
I indulged every single day, emotionally comforted from the ongoing legal nightmare back at home. I kept indulging after the holiday ended.
“I’ll fast tomorrow”, I lied to myself. Then, “I’ll start again next week”, when I didn’t. And eventually, “I’m not fasting anymore, I’m over eating and getting fat”.
But this isn’t a story about fat shaming, weight loss, personal training, or body sculpting. It’s about knowing what to do with difficult emotions, and the complicated relationship with over eating. Truth be told, I found comfort in carrying excess weight, a protective wrapper of sorts. Things couldn’t hurt me as much. This was my norm before intermittent fasting, and what I returned to.
Trying to fast amongst the challenging legal proceedings was nigh on impossible, and the time I did, my mood and irritability was knocked for six. Not great being my partner during that time, nor my lawyer. So I ate, unrestricted, watching the waist line expand, loosening the belt. I wasn’t unhappy; my moods were stable, my thinking clear, my protective wrapper quietly returning.
Today’s win on the bathroom scales isn’t about restricting calories, being self-critical, or chasing some kind of idealised body shape. No ripped six pack here. It’s simply the happiness of enjoying more regular fasting again, and that means the turbulent storms of 2025 are finally receding.