Zola was seven when we steered back into Goodwood’s quiet grid of post‑war houses, hunting for the low‑slung building neighbours still call Ubuntu House. My palms stuck to the steering wheel the way they had seven years earlier, the day a social worker placed a two‑month‑old stranger in my arms and told me I was now a parent.
Then, the front garden felt like a border post between two emotional republics: on one side, certainty that the next breath would change our lives; on the other, terror that we weren’t ready. Now, the same gate squeaked its welcome, and the hibiscus hedge, once taller than my courage, looked almost friendly.
“Smells like someone’s cooking pap n sous,” Zola announced, inhaling. “You noticed the food first,” I laughed. “You really are my child.”
We signed the visitors’ book and stepped inside a building that has perfected the art of pause. Ubuntu House exists because South African law grants birth mothers a two‑month window to reverse an adoption decision. That pause protects everyone: the woman processing heartbreak, the baby adjusting to gravity, and the would‑be parents guarding their hearts like porcelain.
Archbishop Desmond Tutu once explained ubuntu this way: “You can’t be human all by yourself.”Ubuntu House is that sentence turned into bricks, cribs, and the gentle swoosh of a steriliser. It’s a village waiting room—where communities, not just couples, learn how much courage it takes to love with an open hand.
2 · The Parable of Zola — An Unfinished Adoption
Zola remembers nothing of her sixty days in the House; memory begins for her with crayons, not cribs. Yet returning unlocked faint echoes: the rattle of a metal cot, the warmth of a volunteer’s palm, a lullaby in two languages. She traced a finger along the nursery wall where eight identical cots stood like empty parentheses, waiting for sentences.
A veteran caregiver, Auntie Nomsa, hugged us both. The hug smelled of cocoa butter, disinfectant, and defiant hope.
“Each baby who leaves takes a family,” she said, “and each family takes the rest of us. We never cut the umbilical cord, we splice it.”
Splice. The word vibrated like guitar feedback. Zola’s origin story is not a tidy arc from orphan to Hallmark montage; it is a braid of birth‑mother bravery, legislative patience, caregiver stamina, and adoptive bewilderment. The book remains open, scribbled in pencil rather than ink.
South Africa’s own saga is equally pencilled. We’ve written luminous chapters—1994’s ballot queues snaking around township classrooms—and blacked‑out pages stained by Marikana shootings, state capture, and xenophobic violence. Draft after draft, we edit, erase, annotate, argue. Our national manuscript won’t be published in hardback during our lifetime, yet footnotes accumulate daily.
3 · Zoom‑Out — A Nation in the Waiting Room
Every society keeps a waiting room, a liminal space between what was and what might become. Ours is the Home Affairs queue, the voting‑day school hall, the taxi where eight languages debate potholes and rugby in the same breath.
Zimbabwean historian Stanlake Samkange distilled ubuntu into three maxims; the first insists: “I affirm my humanity by recognising yours.” Yet our news feeds roar the opposite: electric fences, algorithmic outrage, dinner tables split by power cuts. We resemble new adoptive parents, terrified the country might change its mind and reclaim the fragile optimism we clutch.
Voices from the Waiting Room
Voice
What they say
What they fear
What they hope
The Economist
“GDP is a national mood ring; when trust dips, capital flees.”
Permanent junk status.
Policy that marries growth with equity.
TikTok Comedian @AuntyFats
“Can we braai without dragging Eskom into the marinade?”
Being cancelled by both Left and Right.
Humour as a pressure valve.
Taxi Driver Vusi
“Ek ry ’n land wat nog soek vir homself.”
Politicians weaponising diversity.
Kids who can dream in any language.
Adoption Social Worker K. Naidoo
“Families think the two‑month pause is cruel. It’s mercy—for everyone.”
That adoptive parents ghost the House once papers clear.
Kin‑across‑difference, lifelong.
Grade‑12 Matriculant Lerato
“We’ve only known democracy, but not equality.”
That opportunity is postcode‑dependent.
A bursary—and safe streets to walk to class.
Each fear is legitimate, each hope fragile; all share the same cramped lobby with flickering fluorescent lights.
4 · The Long Table Metaphor
Imagine South Africa as a never‑ending farmhouse trestle stretching from Musina to Muizenberg. Seats are unassigned; you arrive with a story and a spoon. You’re expected to eat and listen in equal measure.
Eating together is one of humanity’s oldest hacks for turning anxiety into appetite. Anthropologists call it commensality; grandmothers call it “Have you eaten, my child?” Food metabolises hierarchy into humility, suspicion into seasoning.
So what belongs in the shared pot—a dish so unmistakably South African that even picky eaters will lean in?
5 · Recipe — Ubuntu Pot (Rainbow Samp‑&‑Bean Stew)
A base as humble as a baby’s first porridge, yet sturdy enough to host a carnival of toppings.
Ingredients (Serves 8 at the Long Table)
Element
Why it matters
2 cups samp (cracked maize)
Staple in Xhosa kitchens; edible heritage.
2 cups sugar beans
Protein for vegans and carnivores.
1 large sweet potato, cubed
Sweet resilience from Mpumalanga soils.
1 cup butternut, diced
Gold‑orange like a flag square.
1 tin coconut milk
Cape Malay nod; lactose‑free comfort.
2 tbsp peanut butter
West‑African echo & allergy conversation‑starter.
1 tbsp mild curry powder
Durban warmth without nuclear fallout.
2 cloves garlic, 1 thumb ginger
Immune boosters & gossip deterrents.
Bouquet fresh thyme & bay
Auntie Nomsa’s secret.
Salt & cracked black pepper
Because people confuse “season” with “spice”.
Method
Overnight Prelude – Soak samp and beans separately under moonlight; they, too, need a cooling‑off period.
Union Ceremony – Rinse, then simmer both in 2 L salted water until nearly tender (≈60 min).
Cape‑Malay Kiss – Stir in curry powder, coconut milk, peanut butter; simmer 10 min until velvet‑thick.
Serve – Ladle into enamel mugs. Invite toppings from the Side‑Dish Carnival.
Side‑Dish Carnival (Choose‑Your‑Own‑Identity)
Fire‑Charred Boerewors Coins – for protein maximalists.
Bright Mango Atchar – sweet‑acid punch, vegan.
Hand‑Ripped Dhania & Mint – herb bridge between spice provinces.
Crisp Pap Chips – gluten‑free crunch for texture anarchists.
Vegan Chakalaka – because the pot still needs gossip.
Pickled Beetroot Hearts – sour‑sweet apology for yesterday’s arguments.
The genius of Ubuntu Pot isn’t culinary complexity; it’s social architecture. A neutral base welcomes any condiment personality that drizzles onto it, exactly how a nation should welcome whichever narrative occupies the chair beside ours.
(Want dessert? Slice naartjies in half, dip the cut sides in brown sugar and set them caramelising on the dying coals. Simple, smoky, bittersweet—like history.)
6 · When the Ladle Is Missing — Accountability at the Table
What happens when someone hogs the ladle—when corruption siphons gravy from the communal pot? Ubuntu is neither naïve nor a scented candle; it demands mutual obligation.
Consider load shedding—briefly a joke, now a chronic ulcer on national time. We can rage on Twitter or we can organise street‑by‑street solar co‑ops, turning candle misery into micro‑grid resilience. When a councillor parks a luxury SUV outside a crumbling clinic, we can meme the hypocrisy or crowd‑fund pressure gauges for the maternity ward’s oxygen supply.
Ubuntu’s darker twin is ubuvila—slothful indifference. Compassion without accountability curdles into charity cosplay. Accountability without compassion mutates into punitive purism. The ladle must circulate—grease the hand if you must, but pass it on.
7 · Practical Acts of Micro‑Ubuntu (Calories Included)
Adopt a Kilometre – Greet every security guard, hawker, and cleaner by name for 30 days.
Pass the Salt Online – Rewrite your hottest rebuttal as a sincere question before posting.
Kitchen‑Chair Amnesty – Host supper where each guest brings a grievance with another guest; eat first, talk second.
Library Receipt Roulette – Tuck an encouraging note inside a returned library book.
Civic Cooling‑Off Period – Wait 48 hours before deciding you’re outraged.
Electric‑Fence Fika – Once a month, invite the neighbour whose dog keeps you awake to coffee over the wall.
Queue DJ – Create a shared playlist via Bluetooth speaker while everyone waits at Licensing. Democracy is easier in 4/4 time.
Mentor in the Dark – Offer load‑shedding study sessions lit by rechargeable lanterns at the local hall.
Grocery‑Basket Swap – Switch shopping lists with a friend from another culture and cook each other’s supper.
Two‑Month Mercy Challenge – Practise a cooling‑off period in personal conflict: no final words, no ultimatums, for sixty days. If Ubuntu House can hold a baby that long, you can hold your fury.
8 · Conclusion — Leaving the House, Extending the Table
As dusk melted across Goodwood, Zola pressed her forehead against Ubuntu House’s gate.
“Did I cry a lot here?” she asked. “No,” Auntie Nomsa smiled. “You slept, you ate, and every time we picked you up, you looked.”
Looked—present continuous tense. Zola is still looking, scanning horizons for blank pages she will someday fill. So, too, is South Africa. Our village house is vast; its rooms echo with unfinished sentences; its long table stretches beyond the throw of any single candle.
When we finally drove away, Zola waved through the rear window. I realised she wasn’t saying goodbye; she was resetting the horizon line between who she has been and who she might still become.
If a child’s first home can teach patience to legal systems, courage to birth‑mothers, and endurance to strangers who may never again see her face, imagine what a country of sixty‑two million could teach itself—if we sat down, passed the ladle, and tasted the stew before criticising the menu.
Let the tears come—of sadness for what’s broken, of joy for what still breathes. Then wipe them away with the corner of a neighbour’s serviette. Hope survives exactly there: in the messy, generous moment where my humanity needs yours to taste like anything at all.
The long, deflated breath you let out when you finally sit down: spine slack, eyelids twitching, coffee gone cold beside you. The breath that says I’ve had enough, even when your to-do list screams more. And then, like clockwork, comes the guilt.
Shouldn’t you be doing something?
Something productive. Something useful. Something Instagrammable. Something heroic. Something that makes you look less… weak?
Rest, in this world, is framed as failure unless it’s earned. And even then, only just.
The Hustle is a Cult, and We’re All in It
We live in a culture where burnout is a badge of honour. Where busy-ness is virtue, exhaustion is currency, and rest is treated like dessert, a sugary reward after you’ve swallowed the meat and bones of your suffering.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: rest is not a reward. It’s a right.
And yet most of us, especially those who care for others, live with chronic conditions, juggle invisible workloads, or simply exist in survival mode, don’t believe we’ve earned it. We need to be told. Given permission. Prescribed it like paracetamol.
I still catch myself apologising for needing rest. I soften the language. I say, “I’m just going to lie down for a minute,” instead of “I’m shutting the world out because I’m completely depleted.” I say “I’m tired” instead of “I’m in pain.” I say nothing at all and power through, because who wants to be the fragile one?
It’s a scam. And it’s killing us slowly.
The History We Inherited (And Didn’t Ask For)
We didn’t create this culture of grind. We inherited it: a system shaped by generations of economic pressure, industrial ideals, and a culture that confuses rest with laziness.
Historically, rest wasn’t just discouraged, it was denied. To the enslaved. The poor. The working class. Productivity was a measure of compliance. Rest was resistance.
Today, even self-care has been co-opted. It’s no longer about replenishing the soul, it’s about selling face masks and bath bombs to the already burnt out. Even our downtime is expected to be photogenic.
And if you live with a chronic illness? Rest becomes your entire life, and somehow still, people expect you to justify it. To prove you’re not just lazy, flaky, or attention-seeking.
Rest is Resistance
Audre Lorde said it best: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence; it is self-preservation.”
Rest is not about quitting. It’s about surviving a system that rewards overextension and punishes stillness. It’s about reclaiming softness in a world that demands sharp edges. It’s about trusting your body over your inbox.
Rest is how we remember we’re human.
What Rest Actually Looks Like (Spoiler: Not Always Pretty)
Let’s get something straight: rest isn’t always wrapped in silk pajamas with lo-fi beats in the background. Sometimes rest is ugly. Messy. Loud. Sometimes it’s:
Crying in the bath until your sinuses are clear.
Saying “no” without offering an excuse.
Sleeping in clothes that aren’t pajamas because that’s all you could manage.
Letting the dishes wait.
Cancelling plans, even with people you love.
Turning off your phone.
Doing nothing, not meditating, not manifesting, not improving yourself. Just… nothing.
Real rest is not aesthetic. It’s sacred.
You Don’t Need Permission, But Here It Is Anyway
If you need someone to say it, let me be the voice:
You are allowed to rest. Not because you worked hard enough. Not because you’re falling apart. Not because you ticked every box. But because you are a living being. And living beings need rest.
No one questions a dog for napping in the sun. No one asks a tree to bloom year-round. But somehow, you, with your spiralling inbox and shrinking patience and bones that ache when it rains, are expected to keep going like a machine.
You are not a machine. You are not a machine. You are not a machine.
Let the World Wait
The revolution isn’t in the doing. It’s in the being. It’s in saying, “Not today, thanks.” It’s in horizontal activism; in naps, in stillness, in choosing slowness when the world demands speed.
Rest isn’t the opposite of action. It’s what allows us to continue.
So lie down. Log off. Let the world wait.
It can handle itself for a while.
And if it can’t? That’s not your fault either.
Tell me…
Do you struggle with guilt when you rest?
What’s one way you’re reclaiming rest in your own life?
Should we start a nap revolution?
Let’s talk in the comments, but only after your nap.
Editor’s Note This one’s for the tired ones. The ones still standing, barely, because they had to be. I wrote it for the part of me that still thinks asking for help is weakness, even when I know better. It’s not polished. It’s not pretty. But it’s real. For anyone who’s ever had to fight to find their people, this is for you.
These Weary Bones
oh these weary bones that rattle like a snake deceived by a mind that won’t shut up the motormouth spinning stories, dizzying the insides of my head.
I rose from nothing, like a loaf left too long in the oven punched, kneaded, left to burn.
I’m no damn island. more a battered village clinging to a cliffside. fingernails split. hands bloodied. still, holding on.
a stubborn mule clutching pride even as hands reach out. I know I’m not alone.
this world all rage and righteous rot. keep your petty poppycock step the fuck aside if all you bring is cruelty and showmanship.
no space left on this rock for exploding egos and fair-weather saints. I’ve bled too much to share ground with cowards.
The Comfort of a Clan
I’m tired. Not the “I stayed up too late” kind of tired. No, I’m talking about the kind of tired that lives in your bones. The kind that whispers, “you’re doing too much again,” even while you keep pushing. My MS flares love to remind me what happens when I don’t listen.
Still, I keep going. And honestly? I’m not even sure how.
But here’s one truth I know: I am incredibly lucky. I’ve got a clan. A real one. A village. A tribe. A group of humans who love me hard, hold me up, and never ask for anything in return but the truth. I think of the people who don’t have that, who face the grind alone, and my heart breaks a little.
Yes, I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I think that’s normal, especially when your body betrays you. But even then, I remind myself, I am one of the lucky ones. I don’t have to do this alone.
Well, except I often try to.
Because, truth be told, I am a stubborn old bag. Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve been fiercely independent for over 16 years. Before that? I was stuck in a situation where I had no choice but to rely on someone who resented every second of it. It nearly broke me. But I got out. With the help of my family and years of therapy, I found myself again.
So no, I don’t like asking for help. It reminds me of what it used to cost me. But these days, my body doesn’t give me the luxury of pride. And I’m learning, slowly, to trust that help doesn’t always come with strings.
For the first time, I’m in a relationship that feels like home. Not perfect. Not a rom-com. But real. Equal. Honest. Communication is the currency, not control. We walk beside each other, no one dragging the other along. It took me long enough to find this. But god, it was worth the wait.
Here’s something else I’ve learned: Surrounding yourself with the right people? It’s everything.
I’ve trimmed my circle right down in recent years. No room for the energy vampires, the performative friends, the ones who disappear when things get hard. I don’t need a crowd. I need a few solid souls who remind me who I am when I forget. Who challenge me, support me, and never let me shrink.
You don’t have to agree on everything, politics, religion, parenting styles, or pineapple on pizza. What matters is respect. Empathy. The ability to sit across from someone and say, “I don’t get it, but I’m here.”
Imagine a world where that was the norm instead of the exception. Imagine a culture built not on outrage and ego, but on kindness and curiosity.
Yeah, I know. Sounds like a pipe dream. But honestly? I think it starts with us. With our little villages. By refusing to let the world make us bitter. Choosing over and over to love louder than the noise.
It still takes a village. Maybe now more than ever.
And I’m holding onto mine with everything I’ve got.
It’s 2:47 a.m. and I’m scrolling through Instagram, watching strangers toast champagne in Santorini, cuddle golden retrievers, and post “raw” captions that somehow still feel filtered. I’m not sad, exactly. But I’m not okay, either. I’m lonely. And I know I’m not alone in that.
In a world where we can FaceTime across oceans and “like” a hundred photos before breakfast, why do so many of us feel so disconnected? The answer is messy, layered, and deeply human if we’re brave enough to look.
The Digital Age: More Screens, Fewer Souls
We were promised connection. Instead, we got curated highlight reels and dopamine loops. A 2025 Baylor University study found that both passive scrolling and active posting on social media were linked to increased feelings of loneliness over time. Even when we’re engaging, we’re often left feeling emptier than before.
It’s not just the quantity of our interactions that’s changed, it’s the quality. We’ve traded deep conversations for comment threads, shared silences for typing indicators. And in doing so, we’ve lost something vital.
The Health Toll: Loneliness as a Silent Epidemic
Loneliness isn’t just a feeling; it’s a health crisis. The U.S. Surgeon General has equated the health risks of chronic loneliness to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. It increases the risk of heart disease, stroke, dementia, and premature death.
Mental health suffers, too. Lonely individuals are more prone to depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. The emotional pain of isolation can be as real and as damaging as physical pain.
The Vicious Cycle: Social Media and Loneliness
It’s a cruel irony: we turn to social media to feel connected, but it often leaves us feeling more isolated. A longitudinal study among Chinese college students found a bidirectional relationship between loneliness and problematic social media use—each feeding into the other over time.
The more we scroll, the lonelier we feel. And the lonelier we feel, the more we scroll. Breaking this cycle requires conscious effort and, often, a reevaluation of our digital habits.
The Generational Divide: Gen Z and the Loneliness Surge
Gen Z, the first generation to grow up entirely in the digital age, is experiencing unprecedented levels of loneliness. A 2025 report revealed that one in four young Australians reports loneliness as a daily stressor. Social media, while offering avenues for connection, often exacerbates feelings of isolation among youth.
The constant exposure to others’ curated lives can lead to feelings of inadequacy and exclusion, further deepening the chasm of loneliness.
The Illusion of AI Companionship
In an attempt to address the loneliness epidemic, tech leaders like Mark Zuckerberg have proposed AI companions as a solution. While AI can offer temporary comfort, it cannot replace the depth and complexity of human relationships. Overreliance on AI risks diminishing the value of genuine human interaction and may lead society to neglect essential social infrastructure.
True connection requires vulnerability, empathy, and shared experiences—qualities that AI, no matter how advanced, cannot authentically replicate.
Reclaiming Connection: Steps Toward Healing
Addressing loneliness in the digital age requires intentional action:
Digital Detox: Set boundaries for screen time. Designate tech-free zones and times to foster real-world interactions.
Community Engagement: Participate in local events, volunteer, or join clubs to build meaningful relationships.
Mindful Technology Use: Use social media intentionally. Engage in content that uplifts and connects rather than isolates.
Seek Support: If loneliness becomes overwhelming, reach out to mental health professionals or support groups.
By taking these steps, we can begin to rebuild the social fabric that technology has, in some ways, unraveled.
A Personal Reflection
I remember a time when I felt truly connected—not through likes or comments, but through shared laughter and unfiltered conversations. It was messy, imperfect, and real. In our pursuit of digital perfection, we’ve lost sight of the beauty in imperfection.
Let’s choose to be present. To look up from our screens and into each other’s eyes. To embrace the awkward silences and the unfiltered moments. Because in those spaces, true connection thrives.
There’s something about autumn that feels like a deep exhale.
Maybe it’s the way the trees let go of their leaves without resistance or how the light softens, casting everything in a golden glow. In Stellenbosch, autumn isn’t just a season; it’s a full-body experience. The streets are lined with trees turning fire red, the vineyards stretch out in amber and gold, and the mountains stand quietly in the distance, cloaked in shifting light.
For those of us navigating trauma recovery, this season offers more than beauty. It mirrors the process of emotional healing: the letting go, the slowing down, the quiet preparation for what comes next.
The Science of Letting Go: Nature’s Blueprint for Recovery
As the days shorten and temperatures drop, trees begin conserving energy. They stop producing chlorophyll, revealing the reds and oranges that were there all along. This isn’t about decay. It’s about wisdom. About trusting the cycle.
Just like the trees, we too need seasons of rest. Healing from trauma or chronic stress requires periods of pulling back—of turning inward, conserving energy, and allowing space for repair.
Letting go doesn’t mean failure. It means preparing the soil for growth.
Grounding Practices Inspired by Autumn
In trauma recovery, grounding practices help bring us back to the present moment, to safety and stability. And autumn is rich with grounding sensory experiences:
Sight: Fire-coloured leaves, long shadows, golden sunsets.
Smell: Earthy moss, fallen leaves, woodsmoke.
Touch: Crisp air on your cheeks, the texture of bark, the crunch of leaves underfoot.
Sound: Wind whispering through the trees, migrating birds, footsteps on gravel.
These sensory cues are more than poetic; they’re therapeutic. They help anchor our nervous systems, soothe our overstimulated minds, and reconnect us with the world.
Stellenbosch in Autumn: A Sanctuary for Mental Health
Stellenbosch is a balm this time of year. The oak-lined streets feel like old friends. The vineyards are dressed in their autumn best. Jonkershoek Nature Reserve offers trails lined with gold and crimson, each step a gentle meditation.
There’s something profoundly healing about walking through this fire-hued landscape. Whether you’re sipping tea on a quiet stoep, journaling beside a vineyard, or watching the light shift through red leaves, autumn in Stellenbosch invites you to slow down. To breathe. To feel.
Even a single mindful walk, a moment of awe, or a pause under a tree can become a healing ritual.
Emotional Healing Through Seasonal Shifts
Autumn gives us permission to change. To soften. To stop performing resilience and simply be.
It reminds us:
That shedding isn’t weakness.
That pausing is productive.
That healing is not linear.
So if you’re feeling the pull to retreat, to reflect, to let go of something you’ve been carrying too long, trust it. The season is holding space for you.
Enjoying the blog? Please consider sending me a cuppa to keep the engines running.
Let me tell you a secret. I’ve danced with every damn diet under the sun; keto, intermittent fasting, Banting, and that unholy grapefruit cleanse that basically turned me into a bloated, vitamin-deficient rage monster. Spoiler: I didn’t find health. I found constipation. And maybe scurvy.
We all know someone who swears by their meal plan like it’s a cult. “It changed my life!” they proclaim with the wild-eyed fervour of someone who hasn’t eaten bread in six weeks. And hey, maybe it did change their life, for the better. But here’s the thing no glossy diet book or smug wellness influencer will say out loud: bodies are not IKEA furniture. You don’t follow the same manual and get the same result.
Same goal, wildly different wiring
Let’s say two people want to feel better in their skin. One loves rules, macros and spreadsheets. The other? They spiral into food obsession the second MyFitnessPal chirps at them. One thrives. The other starts questioning their entire existence because they drank a cup of coffee. (Yes, a cup of coffee.) (Yes, that was me.)
Here’s what the diet industrial complex conveniently skips:
Genetics impact how we burn, store, and crave food.
Hormones run the hunger and energy show.
Neurodivergence; ADHD, autism, anxiety, can make rigid routines feel like handcuffs.
Chronic illness? Now we’re talking meds, fatigue, pain, and bodies that say, “Yeah, we don’t do that here.”
So, when your co-worker drops 20 pounds on keto and you just end up sobbing in your pantry? That’s not weakness. That’s biology. That’s your body asking, What the actual hell is this?
Exhibit A: Real people, real mismatches
“I tried intermittent fasting. Supposed to feel focused. I got migraines and dreamed about bagels.” – Lia, 29
“Paleo made my sister a CrossFit queen. I tried it and my IBS went DEFCON 1.” – Sam, 41
“Counting calories helped me feel in control… until I became terrified of fruit. Bananas, Kate. Bananas.” – Maya, 35
These aren’t failures. These are data points. Proof that your body is not a broken version of someone else’s success story. It’s just… yours.
What actually works? Curiosity over control.
What if the goal wasn’t to “succeed” at a diet, but to get curious about what actually makes you feel good?
What if instead of punishing yourself into someone else’s miracle, you asked:
Does this food make me feel energised?
Do I feel grounded or anxious when I eat this way?
Am I hungry, or am I following a rule?
That’s not weakness. That’s intelligence. That’s self-respect.
And no, it doesn’t come with an affiliate code or a #bodygoals before/after post. It comes with a relationship to food that doesn’t feel like war.
Newsflash: Suffering ≠ Success
Health is not a prize you earn by hating yourself hard enough. You don’t need to choke down bone broth and silence your hunger to be worthy of respect, or love, or your own damn body.
Let me say this louder for the people in the back: If a plan is making you feel like hell, it’s not you. It’s the plan.
Because the best “diet” isn’t the fastest, trendiest, or most punishing; it’s the one that meets you where you are, with grace, not guilt. That’s the kind of success that actually lasts.
So maybe the real revolution isn’t another cleanse. Maybe it’s choosing to believe your body isn’t the enemy.
What about you? Ever been wrecked by a “perfect” plan?
