It’s not the food

There I was, again.
Hand elbow-deep in the bottom of a family-sized bag of crisps, fingertips grazing those stubborn, salty shards that cling to the foil like barnacles to a sinking ship.
Mouth still chewing, brain mildly horrified, stomach somewhere between full and “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

And the thought always came like clockwork:
“Where the hell did they go?”
As if someone else had eaten them. As if maybe the cat had grown opposable thumbs and developed a taste for sour cream & chives.

This wasn’t a one-off.
This was a pattern.
I could be “good” for a few days, maybe even stretch it out to a week if I really knuckled down— eating what I was supposed to eat, ticking the invisible boxes of Clean and Wholesome and Virtuous.

But inevitably, like a beach ball you try to hold underwater, it would pop back up.
And suddenly I’d be knee-deep in sugar, carbs and shame.
The cravings would hit, I’d cave (hard) and tell myself I’d start again tomorrow. Or Monday. Or next year. Or reincarnation.

In those moments, food felt like the enemy.
It felt like it had some sinister hold over me.
Like I was addicted to it. Obsessed.
Possessed, even.

I didn’t trust myself around it.
I didn’t trust myself at all.

So, I tried everything I was told would help:
Willpower.
Self-discipline.
Self-control.
(Which, by the way, all sound suspiciously like things you’d need to survive a hostage situation, not eat a sandwich.)

I tried not buying “bad” food.
Did the whole “don’t keep it in the house” thing.
(Which works great until you're alone in a petrol station with a debit card and no witnesses.)

But no matter how far I distanced myself from the so-called problem, the problem… stayed.

I wasn’t cured.
I was just hungry, cranky and eating spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar at 10pm.

And then life, in its infinite, casually cruel wisdom, threw me a curveball.
My marriage ended.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I wouldn’t recommend heartbreak as a weight loss strategy.
But it did force me to pause.
To stop running from myself long enough to actually look at my life.

And what I saw wasn’t pretty.
It was… honest.
Uncomfortable.
Clarifying.

I started fixing the things I didn’t like.
Not my thighs. Not my snacks.
My life.

And as I did that?
Something truly weird happened.

My “food issues” started resolving themselves.

No big dramatic transformation.
Just… less drama.
Less obsession.
Less whispering to myself, “I’ll be good tomorrow.”

Because the truth—one I’d spent decades chewing around but never quite swallowing—finally landed:
Food was never the problem.

Read that again. Slower.
It’s not the food.

Think about it. Food doesn’t yell your name from the pantry.
It doesn’t jump down your throat while you’re watching Netflix.
It doesn’t force you to eat it while whispering sweet nothings about trans fats.

Food is just… food.
It sits there. It exists.
It doesn’t beg or barter or blackmail.

So all that willpower and control and abstinence and duct-taping the biscuit tin closed?
Pointless.

Because it was never about the bloody crisps.

It was about why I was using food.
What I was trying to soothe, avoid, numb, or delay.
And when I stopped needing food to fix my life, I stopped misusing it.

Now, food is just food.
And honestly? I like it more than ever.

I eat what I want.
I enjoy every bite.
But I don’t feel compelled to overeat.
There’s no urgency. No guilt.
Just… satisfaction.

I eat less.
Not because I “should” or because some spreadsheet says so.
But because I actually feel done.

I stay at a healthy weight—yes, even post-menopause, even with life still doing its thing.
And not because I’ve become some zen monk of moderation, but because I stopped fighting food.

More importantly, I stopped fighting myself.

So, if you’re out there thinking your problem is food…
It’s not.
It’s never been.

You don’t need to be “stronger” or “stricter.”
You need to be more curious.
More compassionate.
More bloody honest with yourself.

Because once you realise it’s not what you’re eating…
But why...

Everything shifts.
And life? It gets lighter.

Not just on the scales—
But in your mind.
In your day.
In your bloody soul.

And if you want help unravelling all this in a way that doesn’t involve calorie counters, shame spirals or swearing off pasta forever—

I’d love to show you how.
No judgement.
No rules.
Just truth.
And maybe a cup of tea.