This morning I woke up and decided I was going back to carnivore. Again. I’ve been on every diet you can think of—vegetarian, keto, intermittent fasting—but I still keep circling back, hoping one of them will finally make me feel okay in my body. So I told myself today was the day. No sugar, no wheat, no carbs. Just meat. Grace and I even bought chicken to start fresh.
Later, we went to the salon. You know how salons are—women chatting, hair dryers buzzing, the air thick with perfume and food smells. Then someone came in taking lunch orders. One by one, everyone shouted what they wanted—rice, ugali with matumbo, chapati with dengu, peas with stew. The room filled with the smell of warm food and frying oil. And when the food finally arrived, the smell of chapati nearly broke me.
I sat there quietly, trying to stay strong because I was “on carnivore.” But watching everyone else eat while I just sat there made me feel so miserable. Not just hungry, but small. Like I’d trapped myself again in this cycle of control and guilt. I’d chosen a diet that told me I couldn’t even enjoy a normal meal surrounded by people, laughter, and good smells.
And then this weird thought hit me—what if I died today? How wasteful would my life feel? Because I’d die denying myself the very things that bring me joy. I’d die hungry for something as simple as a chapati. I’d die after years of telling myself no, waiting for some future moment when I’d finally earned yes.
It’s funny and sad at the same time. The worst time to die would be while you’re on a diet. Because you’d die mid-denial. You’d die in the middle of punishment. You’d die trying to perfect a body that won’t even matter anymore.
Maybe the real peace isn’t in another diet. Maybe it’s in learning to eat with kindness. To feed myself like I’m someone I actually care about, not someone I’m trying to fix.
Love me or hate me, I’m a pum pum.