When I was a young adult I exhausted myself by controlling every detail of what I consumed.
During that time, I assigned moral value to food. Some foods were labeled good and some were bad. Some were deemed healthy and some were tragically unhealthy.
As a young person I watched my peers talk about the guilt and regret they felt after eating a handful of starbursts at the beach. I observed aunts and uncles claim on Thanksgiving that they were going to “be good” and skip dessert. Everyone reacted positively to these comments. To me, people who minded their diets appeared to be better people for doing so.
As a young perfectionist, the learned morality around food was like a sparkling invitation to elevate my life. Health, nutrition, and a hot body were waiting for me on the other side. I joined the masses.
Every day I strategically planned my meals to limit intake. I feverishly counted calories, exerted willpower and discipline when I was hungry, and only ate healthy foods. This gave me the illusion that I was in control. I quickly received my perfect results with one dismal side effect:
I became food’s bitch.
Looking back, there were some pretty obvious signs.
