He is the prize at the end of the journey. To fully receive that gift and build the life I dream of with him, I have made my health non-negotiable. Nutrition is not just a hobby for me; it is something I can wax poetic about for hours with genuine excitement. I have explored it all — from the MAHA movement (seed oils, fluoride, ultra-processed additives, and all the hidden toxins) to Ray Peat’s principles and everything in between. I have lived the experiments myself: vegan, gluten-free, paleo, keto. I have been underweight and overweight. Through trial and error, I have learned what truly makes the body and mind thrive.
A glowing, multicolored heart-shaped swirl glimmers vividly in space.
A brain injury years ago left me with some lasting effects I can be self-conscious about. It does not stop me from loving deeply or building a lasting relationship— as seen in my current form attracting him (thankfully, the “disability” does not seem to bother him at all), but I still carry that quiet desire to show up as my strongest, healthiest self. I want to move through life with ease — for me, and especially for him.
Currently. Wifely duties from afar.
Because more than anything, I long to be his perfect little housewife. I can already manage it beautifully with one hand, but two steady hands would let me pour even more love into our home. And yes — almost every girl dreams of the aisle. So I am committed to walking strong, not just so I can hold his hand while we stroll down the street or along the beach, but so I can walk down that damn aisle toward him, radiant and ready for forever.
I am not exaggerating, and this is not hyperbole: fasting legitimately saved my life.
I am an all-or-nothing girl. Always have been. That same wired-in extremity that nearly destroyed me with anorexia is the exact thing that is now keeping me thriving. For years I could starve myself into oblivion without blinking. My body knew how to disappear. But here is the twisted part—I love food. Not in a “oh I enjoy a nice salad” way. I am talking deep, carnal, mouth-watering obsession. Decadent, buttery, chocolate-drenched, sprinkle-covered, still-warm-from-the-oven baked goods that make you moan when you bite into them. Yeah, those.
University was a sad, hollow circus. I was not “enjoying food”—I was scarfing down everything that I would not allow myself to have before. Cabinets stuffed with chips, cookies, chocolate bars, fancy cheeses—anything I could get my hands on—but also chips, ramen and full trays from the dining hall. Whole pizzas and pints of ice cream. It was punishment dressed up as control. I was miserable and secretly dying inside.
Then I flipped the script.
Now I eat like a queen on my terms. I worship treats, but I do not let them run my life. I am not some joyless monk. I have boundaries.
A wooden table in a rustic kitchen filled with fresh fruits, vegetables, bread, and herbs near a window
I run a brutal but beautiful intermittent fasting schedule. Lunch around 11 a.m.—usually something vibrant, colorful, and actually nutritious, because I am not an idiot. Then one snack somewhere between 2 and 5 p.m. That is it. The rest of the day my body gets to chill, burn fat, repair itself, and stop being a slave to constant digestion.
Eating out on holiday with my man.
Weekends are when I let the beast out. Chocolate. Nuts. Freshly baked pastries. I go all out. And because I have kept my weekdays tight, I do not blow up or hate myself on Monday. This is not restriction for restriction’s sake. This is strategy. This is power.
This way of eating does not look perfect for cohabitation. Living with my man means I am going to have some late dinners. And plenty of steak and potatoes (his favorites). But right now, this is how I learned to enjoy my life without turning into a bloated, anxious mess. I am still dedicated. I am still disciplined. And most importantly—I am still playing.
I love my body now. I am done punishing it. Done with the war. Fasting showed me I could have both: the thrill of indulgence and the iron grip of self-control. It is the ultimate flex.
Intermittent Fasting is my daily weapon—the one that actually fits real life. 16:8, 18:6, whatever. You shrink the window of the hours in which you allow yourself to eat, expand your freedom.
But there is more. The dark arts:
Water Fasting—just water, sometimes electrolytes, for days. This one takes god-tier discipline. Your body goes full apocalypse mode: autophagy on steroids, inflammation crashing, mental clarity. I have done shorter ones. The first 48 hours can suck your soul out, but then something shifts. You float. You feel dangerous. Powerful. Like you could conquer anything on nothing but spite and sparkling water.
Fruit Fasting—basically what I did during my high school years. Flooding your system with natural sugars and enzymes from fresh, ripe fruit only. It is a gentler cleanse, great for resetting taste buds and giving your gut a break without going full nuclear. Sweet, juicy, vibrant—feels less like punishment and more like a tropical vacation for your cells.
Dry Fasting—the final boss. No food, no water. Absolute zero intake. This one is not for beginners or clout-chasers. It is extreme, it is controversial, and it forces your body into survival—pulling water from metabolic processes, accelerating repair like nothing else. I respect the hell out of it, but I approach with caution. Your body has to be ready.
All of them revolve around the same truth: sometimes the most radical act of self-love is not putting food in your mouth 24/7.
Fasting did not just fix my body. It rewired my relationship with control, pleasure, and power. I am no longer the girl hoarding snacks. I am the woman who decides when and how she feasts—and when she lets the fire burn clean.
If you are all-or-nothing like me, maybe this is your answer too. Stop the endless grazing. Stop the guilt-shame spiral. Draw a hard line, protect your window, and then truly enjoy yourself when it is time.
Your body is not a temple to be constantly decorated with snacks. It is a weapon. Sharpen it.
I am living proof.
He loves to take pictures of me indulging!
Now if you will excuse me… it is Sunday. There is something chocolate calling my name.
At fifteen years old, I stepped off a plane into a world that felt like it had leaped straight out of a National Geographic. The air was warmer, drier, and carried the faint scent of eucalyptus. I was part of the People to People Ambassador Program, a life-changing opportunity that took a group of wide-eyed American teens halfway around the globe to Australia. What started as a simple cultural exchange trip quickly became a whirlwind of big-city glamour, rugged outback exploration, family-style homestays, and the kind of teenage chaos that only happens when you are far from home and the usual rules do not quite apply (the innocent kind though, not really what we see on teenager television shows).
Our itinerary was perfectly balanced between urban sophistication and raw Australian wilderness. We bounced between the gleaming harbors of Sydney and Melbourne and endless stretches of red earth in the outback. Long bus rides became our moving classrooms—hours spent watching the landscape shift from bustling streets to golden grasslands. We stayed with local families who opened their homes (and hearts) to us, sharing meals, stories, and glimpses into everyday Aussie life that no guidebook could ever capture.
Sydney hit me like a fever dream. The iconic Opera House rose like white sails against the sparkling harbor, its curves even more breathtaking in person than in any photo I had seen. We toured the Olympic facilities from the 2000 Games, walking through stadiums that once echoed with global cheers. I remember standing there, imagining the roar of the crowd, feeling tiny yet somehow part of something enormous.
But beneath the excitement, I carried a heavy secret. This was the year after I started high school, and the pressure to look and be “perfect” had already taken root in my mind. Australia felt like the ultimate reset button—a chance to reinvent myself far from judgmental eyes back home. Before the trip even began, I emailed the volunteer chaperones with a carefully worded note: I would not be eating much, and they should not worry about me. Looking back now, it breaks my heart to think of that determined, insecure fifteen-year-old girl trying so hard to control the one thing she could in a brand-new country.
On those long bus rides, packed lunches were handed out like clockwork—sandwiches thick with deli meats, crisp chips, and sweet treats. I would politely unwrap mine, eat only the apple, and quietly put the rest aside. The volunteers were kind, but I could feel their concerned glances. During our homestay in Melbourne, the warm “mom” of the house cooked a hearty Australian meal just for us. I pushed the plate away after a few bites, murmuring something about being full. Her disappointed but understanding look still lingers with me. Food became both enemy and background noise while the real adventure swirled around me.
Of course, no trip at fifteen would be complete without plenty of youthful mischief. I flirted shamelessly with the boys in our group—stolen glances across bus aisles, whispered jokes during tours, and that electric buzz of first crushes amplified by the freedom of being overseas.
The Australian sun, however, showed no mercy. Wanting to be perfect meant that I wanted golden skin. I ended up severely sunburned. My skin turned lobster-red, peeling in painful sheets for days. Lesson learned: respect the ozone hole Down Under.
One of my biggest hurdles was begging my mother—via crackly payphone calls from a random shopping mall —to let me get my belly button pierced. I pleaded, I reasoned, I dramatically described how “everyone” was doing it. She held firm.
Instead, I settled for a temporary tattoo from a quirky shop near the harbor. It was some butterfly design that I proudly showed off to the group. When I got home, I let everyone believe it was real, basking in the temporary cool factor before it faded in the shower. Small rebellions, big memories.
The real soul of the trip was during our long bus tours through the outback. The landscape stretched endlessly—red dirt, scrubby bushes, and skies so vast they made you feel wonderfully insignificant. We learned about Aboriginal culture, their deep connection to the land, and the stories passed down through oldtime legends.
A vehicle traverses a winding red dirt road through arid outback terrain under a partly cloudy sky
One unforgettable stop was a wildlife sanctuary where I finally got to hold a tiny koala. He was everything I imagined: fluffy gray fur, button eyes, and a sleepy demeanor (apparently they are constantly high from eating the eucalyptus). I beamed for the camera, arms gently cradling him. But internally? I was screaming. Those adorable little claws dug into my arm like tiny needles. Sharp did not even begin to describe it. Still, worth every scratch for that photo and the story.
We spotted kangaroos hopping freely in the wild—elegant, powerful creatures that seemed to defy gravity. At the sanctuary, we got closer, feeding them and watching their curious faces up close. Later, in a remote outback experience hosted by Aboriginal elders, we were treated to kangaroo tail. It was an honor to share in their traditional food. The tail was tough, mostly dense muscle with very little fat or tenderness—chewy, gamey, and completely unlike anything I had eaten before. It was not about gourmet flavor; it was about connection, respect, and tasting a piece of the land itself.
That trip to Australia did not magically fix my insecurities around food and body image. Those battles continued for years as I eventually got down to double digits on the bathroom scale. But it planted seeds of perspective. I saw a country that was both modern and ancient, vibrant and harsh, welcoming and wild. I learned that adventures are messy—full of sunburns, awkward flirtations, hidden struggles, and moments of pure wonder.
Holding that koala, even through the pain, symbolized something bigger: sometimes the cutest, most picture-perfect experiences are actually concealing something painful. Pushing away plates did make me feel more in control; but it also made me miss out on shared meals and hospitality. The temporary tattoo washed off, but the memories never did.
Years later, I look back on that fifteen-year-old girl with compassion. She was brave enough to travel across the world, curious enough to embrace new cultures, and human enough to make mistakes. Australia taught me that life is best experienced fully—sunburns, sharp claws, kangaroo tail, and all.
If you ever get the chance to say yes to an adventure that scares and excites you, justdo it (like Nike!). Whether it is Australia or somewhere closer to home, the outback of your own growth is waiting.
You know that heavy, bloated, “I just swallowed a brick” feeling after smashing a carb- or protein-loaded meal? Yeah, that is not happening to me anymore. So I ditched the rules and went full “Eat Whatever the Fuck I Want” — and for me, that means going Ray Peat/ paleo.
This is not some calorie-counting prison or macro-obsessed cult. It is a pro-metabolic, bioenergetic middle finger to the standard “choke down kale” or chicken breasts for every meal bullshit. Basically it is a scientific excuse for me to indulge in my dainty way of enjoying all sorts of goodies.
Developed by the late biologist Dr. Ray Peat, it is all about cranking your metabolism, supporting your thyroid, balancing hormones (more progesterone, less estrogen and cortisol chaos), and keeping inflammation down.
Peat basically said most of our problems — fatigue, stubborn fat, hormonal issues, premature aging — boil down to one thing: a sluggish metabolism. I am 100% on board with that diagnosis.
The goal is to create a safe, energy-rich environment inside your body with easy-to-digest, nutrient-dense foods that let your cells actually produce energy instead of just being stressed.
The Core Rules (that I mostly follow when I feel like it):
Carbs are king. Simple sugars from fruit, juice, honey, and sugar. Enough of the “sugar is poison” crowd — I am loading up on orange juice, mangoes, papayas, cherries, melons, ripe berries, and apples. I adore fruits! Fast fuel, vitamins, minerals, antioxidants. Tastes like victory.
Saturated fats over everything. Butter, coconut oil, ghee, full-fat dairy, cocoa butter. Seed oils (canola, soy, sunflower, corn) are straight-up toxic according to Peat. I avoid that industrial sludge (I write about this, here).
Smart sources of protein: This is an aspect of my diet that I do not particularly prioritize. I am not some big hulking man Gelatin, collagen, bone broth, shellfish, oysters, eggs, and dairy. I could see myself enjoying a nice cup of bone broth for lunch.
Dairy is back and might be a new favorite: Milk, cheese, ice cream — preferably full-fat and high quality. Cheese. My new obsession.
Root veggies and well-cooked starches. Potatoes, sweet potatoes (I LOVE ME SOME SWEET POTATO!), carrots, squash. Cooked fully so your gut will not throw a tantrum.
Coffee, salt, sugar (in reason), and constant fluids. My black espresso still fits. Peat loved it with milk and sugar anyway.
Avoid the inflammatory: Most grains, legumes, raw cruciferous veggies, fatty fish, and all that processed garbage loaded with iron and additives.
Peat said eat frequently — no fasting, no severe restriction — to keep blood sugar and energy steady. Here is where we clash: I still love fasting and eating like a dainty fairy princess who barely needs calories to look after her man, run the house, and do activaties like Pilates. But I am playing with the Peaty principles because they feel better for me.
He wants you eating to appetite, 4-6 times a day, pairing protein with carbs and fat. I love to get these protein and fats in through avocado and nut butters for dipping, but I will never eat more than once a day (plus an evening snack). Plus, he suggests cooking everything well. I will cook most things well… but tartare and sushi still hit my personal menu because rules are suggestions when they taste good.
People on this way of eating report better energy, thyroid function, digestion, skin, hair, hormones, and way fewer cravings. Ray Peat himself lived to 86, slamming orange juice and ice cream while most diet gurus look like they are one kale smoothie from the grave.
Critics scream it is”too much sugar,” lacks big clinical trials, and laughs in the face of mainstream advice to avoid sat fat and eat more fiber. I love that part. If the mainstream says it, I am already suspicious.
It might not work for everyone — dairy issues, specific conditions, etc. Talk to a doctor before you go full rebel, blah blah.
Bottom line: This is a flexible framework inspired by Peat’s work (raypeat.com has the deep dives). I am not following it like scripture — I am stealing the parts that make me feel alive, energetic, and less bloated while still indulging my sweet tooth (plus I am stealing most of my dietary “rules” from the cavemen— paleo— but with a bit more sweetness).
So I stopped feeling weighted down. I would rather feel light, sharp, and fueled by fruit, ice cream, and spite.
There was a time when I saw life as nothing more than a chaotic tangle of random events—senseless pain. I spent years fighting against the current, clenching my fists at the universe, demanding answers for every unfair event. But one day, exhausted from the resistance, I finally let go. I stopped fighting the detours and started tracing the threads that connected them. What I discovered surprised me deeply.
Every heartbreak, every closed door, every tear-soaked “why me?” moment… none of it was an accident. They were (gluten free) breadcrumbs scattered along a path I could not yet see.
The misery was not punishment. It was preparation — raw, necessary preparation for the woman I was becoming.
I think about the guys who chose other girls over me. At the time, the rejection felt devastating, like a statement that I was not good enough. It cut deep. But looking back now, I see how those experiences were teaching me something important. I had been shrinking myself. I dimmed my light and apologized for my ambitions and my desires. I did this just to fit into someone else’s limited version of love. I hid who I truly was with certain friends. I also did this with family members to keep the peace or earn approval. Those painful rejections became the jumping off point that forced me to stop. They motivated me to stand taller. I reclaimed my voice. I refused to apologize anymore for wanting more. I wanted real, deep, reciprocal love and respect.
Because I finally stopped shrinking, I created space for something better. Now I am with a man who does not just tolerate me — he truly sees me. He celebrates the parts of me that others overlooked or asked me to tone down. The beautiful truth is that I can accept love now. I finally learned to see and value myself first.
The brain injury was terrifying. Those life-altering chapters turned out to be crucial. It became one of the most important turning points of all. It felt like the universe hitting the brakes on a car speeding toward disaster. Without that sudden stop, I honestly do not know. I would have ever slowed down enough to notice how far off course I had drifted.
I was heading down a dark, exhausting path— chasing things that were never meant for me, ignoring the universe’s warnings. The injury forced me to pause. I had to seek the help I had been avoiding. In that healing process, I met the real me. This was the version of myself that had been buried under layers of fat: pain, expectations, and survival mode.
Rediscovering myself changed everything. This version of myself found the courage to take a completely different path. This path eventually led me to the man I now share my life with.
I do not know exactly what the future holds. I feel a deep sense of trust and excitement as we step into it together. The universe has surprised me before, and I believe it will again. I am ready to see what beautiful, unexpected chapters it has planned for us — for our forever.
It is not magic, though sometimes it feels that way. It is a pattern — one I can finally recognize when I look back (20/20 right?!)
Every “no” was a redirection, gently (or sometimes forcefully) steering me away from what was not mine. Every scar I carry has become armor. I have plenty of those scars now, and I wear them with pride instead of shame. The universe never handed me a neat script or a perfectly mapped-out plan. It simply kept nudging me — through joy and through pain — until I stopped resisting and started listening.
So yes… I truly believe everything has happened for a reason. Not because some distant cosmic puppet master was orchestrating every detail from above. But because I kept showing up, kept moving forward even when it hurt, and kept choosing growth over bitterness.
Somewhere along the way, without me even realizing it at first, the chaos began to transform. The random, messy pieces started falling into place. What once looked like pure disaster slowly revealed itself as something far more elegant. It was a kind of dance. A dance I was always meant to learn, step by imperfect step.
A friend of mine recently reminded me about the five year stint I took from eating meat. It was from twenty-twelve until twenty-seventeen. I was vegan during this period. Eating meat again reopened my eyes. This reminds me of the many “fad” diets that I have tried.
After initially getting sick, I had testing to find out which foods I had an intolerance to.
At first, we saw a woo woo type doctor. He had me place my hands on a stone. I could do only my right one obviously. He told me that the stone showed I need to stay away from anything that comes from beef. My mother bought into everything that that “doctor” was shilling. However, my father and I had a hard time believing that prognosis. So I had my blood tested by an actual naturopath.
My blood tests showed that I had an intolerance to dairy and chicken eggs. I was extremely overweight at the time. So, I figured that I might as well cut out all meat and fish, as well. I did not quit because meat was too heavy, or bad for the planet, or—worst of all— too expensive.
(Now I have a conspiracy theory that the doctors doctored those tests because I was so big and so sick).
Being vegan did nothing for me. It definitely was not difficult for me to give up meat; but I absolutely love sushi, ice cream and cheese. But I knew that I could no longer overindulge in these anymore (that is the issue here— overindulgence)
I mostly had a diet of carbohydrates during those years. This was obviously before I started my gluten free lifestyle. I could eat anything fried, doughy, and all of the pasta. And I still adhered to the diet. I also ate a diet full of beans and legumes. This ultimately made my body reject absorbing bean protein. Sigh. I do miss my hummus!—This recipe is not conducive to weight loss.
Now I simply eat whatever I desire. Because the second that that steak hit my tongue in twenty- seventeen everything clicked back into place. As if my body had been quietly waiting, storing up all this dumb, primal hunger. No guilt. No lecture. Just… meat. Warm, real, alive on the plate.
Now, compared to when I decided to go vegan, I can demonstrate discipline. This change has been in effect as of twenty-seventeen. I control how much I eat. This was the major difference. How much I am consuming. As I have mentioned, I managed to lose more than one hundred pounds.
The body is created in the kitchen, not the gym. When I initially gained more than one hundred pounds— I killed myself in the gym and my parents had me see a personal trainer, but I kept eating more of anything and everything. That is why my weight barely budged. I was extremely unhappy and this—reflected in the mirror—and ultimately reflected in my health.
I have learned that weight loss and body image are based on my mental state. I finally found my voice and accepted my opinions instead of following the crowd. As a result, I got happier and met the man of my dreams. I also saw my body transform to mirror my state of mind.
I guess what I am saying is—sometimes you quit because you are scared. Or lazy. Or—in my case—it seemed the easiest way to lose the weight I gained. At least, I thought it was. And then one day you bite into something again, and remember: “This is why I liked it.” Not because it is fancy— although I do love that aspect. Not because it is trendy. Just because it is good. And good makes me happy. Happy equals healthy.
Kat’s Musings 