A quick heads-up before we get into it: This one touches on body image, weight, and food guilt. If that’s a sensitive spot for you right now, please read gently—or skip it altogether if that’s what you need. No pressure, ever.
Yesterday, I sat next to a woman in a café. As I placed my order, she pointed at my cake and said, “That looks amazing. I wish I could allow myself to eat that.”
Now, I’m curious by nature (some might say nosy—but let’s go with curious), so I asked, “Well, why can’t you?”
She sighed. “Because I’ll feel guilty.”
Ugh. And just like that, a simple moment over cake became something bigger. Because this isn’t just about cake, is it?
No, no, no, it is not.
It’s about what we permit ourselves. What we restrict. The constant, exhausting calculations so many of us make about food, worth, and our bodies.
It’s about the belief systems we’ve inherited—the ones that whisper (or scream) that we should always be watching what we eat. That smaller is better. That discipline equals virtue. That our bodies are projects, never quite good enough as they are.
And I’d love to say I’ve transcended all this. That I sat there eating my cake in total freedom, untouched by the internal and external noise about food and body size.
But the truth?
Just the other day, I found an old photo of myself on Facebook, taken ten years ago. I was training for ultramarathons, running most days, in the “best shape” of my life. I was fit and strong.
I was also obsessive, constantly injured, and the kind of miserable that only someone who planned their entire social life around long runs and foam rolling could understand.
And yet, when I saw that photo, I had a visceral reaction—an ache of longing for that body. A flash of hating the one I have now.
And I find that fascinating.
Because I know better. I do this work day in, day out—with my clients and with myself—unpicking beliefs about food and worth, dismantling shame, learning to listen to the body instead of punishing it.
And still, there it was: that gut-punch of regret. The longing. The ache of not-enough. Why does it show up, even when I know better?
And I know the answer (and I am sure you do, too). It’s because we are harangued—daily, relentlessly—by the message that our value is tied to our size, our shape, our “control.” That we should be smaller, leaner, younger-looking, tighter-skinned. Always improving.
And if we can’t do it the “hard” way?
Well, there’s always a shortcut (And yep, bear with me—this next bit is delicate…….)
Weight loss injections are everywhere right now. Originally developed for medical use, they’ve rapidly become the latest go-to for anyone desperate to live in a smaller body.
And I want to tread gently here, because for some people, these medications are genuinely life-changing. If you’ve struggled with weight for years, if your health is at risk, if nothing else has worked—I completely understand why they can feel like a lifeline.
And if losing weight feels right for you—there’s no shame in that. It’s your body, and your choice.
What unsettles me isn’t the medication itself, or the people who choose to use it. What I’m questioning is the culture around it. The pressure. How quickly these tools—even when they’re helpful—can be co-opted by a system that tells us we should always be striving to be smaller. Last night I was scrolling through Instagram and saw post after post, reel after reel, talking about weight loss injections—glowing before-and-afters, promises of a “new you,” all of it. And for one brief moment, I actually thought, “Maybe I should give it a go.” It was fleeting—but it caught me off guard. Even my rational brain did a double take. That’s how quietly these messages can slip under the surface, even when we know better.
And it’s become so easy, thanks to the likes of Instagram—but also magazines, TV, podcasts, adverts, even conversations in waiting rooms and coffee shops and with friends—to internalise the message that thinness equals goodness. That if we just had more willpower, if we just tried harder, we’d finally arrive at the body that gets accepted and approved. And so even the most well-intentioned options can become yet another stick to beat ourselves with.
And I’m not calling out the people who choose these options. I want to be really clear about that. I’m calling out the pressure. The shame. The system that tells us our value is measured by how little space we take up.
And for those of us in bodies that are changing, maybe because of perimenopause, ageing or shifting priorities, it makes the unlearning even fucking harder.
Because here’s the truth I’m wrestling with:
I don’t think I’ll ever look like I did 10 years ago.
Because life looks different now. I no longer want to shape my days around punishing workouts or rigid rules. Because I’ve worked hard to build a life that feels full and rich and meaningful—and I don’t want that life to be ruled by calorie deficits, being in the gym all the time, or whether I can fit into a certain pair of jeans.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Because unlearning is hard.
Even when we know these beliefs are harmful, they have deep roots.
Even when we choose something different, the old pull can still show up.
So maybe the work isn’t about shaming ourselves—or anyone else—for having these thoughts.
Maybe it’s about noticing them. Getting curious. Asking:
Where did I learn this?
Who benefits from me believing it?
Do I actually want to keep this belief?
This isn’t about judgement. It’s an invitation: To pause. To reflect. To make a new choice.
And if nothing else, may this be your reminder that your body is not a project to fix. It’s a home. And it’s allowed to change.
Has your relationship with your body shifted over time? Are you noticing old beliefs rising up as things change?