“If you just exercise, you can eat whatever you want!”
“Sure,” I thought, not considering that the person giving this advice doesn’t have my urge to eat like a trash-raiding raccoon.
“Just quit eating once you feel satisfied.”
“Okay,” I replied, failing to account for the fact that my own internal ‘fullness gauge’ is completely broken.
“Life is too short—just eat the brownie.”
“Fine,” I agreed, not realizing that for me, giving in to a trigger food just awakens a monster that won’t stop.
What did all this advice have in common? It wasn’t necessarily that it was incorrect; after all, it worked for the person saying it. The real commonality was how much I wanted to believe it. My brain, or at least the part with a dysfunctional relationship with food, wanted to believe I could have it both ways. I wanted to believe I could keep my bad habits and still be physically fit.
I wanted to believe I could simply out-train a massive appetite. I wanted to believe that ‘stopping when full’—which to me feels like being totally stuffed—would lead to a healthy weight. I wanted to believe I could stop at one brownie without triggering a binge that clears the whole tray. Because I followed that ‘fun’ advice so eagerly, I ended up gaining back every pound I had lost.
But this time? I refuse to regain those 200+ pounds. I’m staying away from advice that sounds too appealing. Now, I pause and ask, “Is this something I actually need, or is it just what my food-addicted brain wants to hear?” If it’s the latter, it’s probably a trap. The strategies that actually lead to a healthy mind and body aren’t nearly as ‘fun’ as the bad advice. It requires accepting that I’ll never have that fantasy relationship with food where I can eat anything I want and still have a six-pack.
So, how do I identify truly good advice? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that bad advice is everywhere, and in my experience, it’s much easier to swallow than the truth.
Thanks.