A couple years ago as it came time for New Year’s goals, I realized that I had made the same goal every year since I was thirteen—I would lose some weight (five pounds or ten or twenty–depending on the year and how much I hated what the scale said). It made for a lot of miserable Januarys and a few miserable Decembers since I’d justify eating extra even if I wasn’t hungry because the food was delicious and available. And throughout the year, I’d continue this pattern—as the seasons changed, when big family events occurred, when I started blaming the dryer for shrinking my clothes–until I realized that I was living my life in two speeds: dieting and preparing to diet.
It was so much a part of my life, one that didn’t necessarily make me happy or fulfilled, but something I felt like I had to do.