For a long time, I thought my relationship with food was a discipline problem.

Too much rice.
Late-night eating.
Comfort tipping into excess.

What I’m beginning to understand is that it was never really about food.

It was about unmet needs.

When responsibility is high — when I’m holding a lot alone — my body looks for relief. When loneliness settles in, especially in the evenings, I reach for closeness in the most available form I have. Food becomes warmth. Predictability. Containment. Something I can complete.

That doesn’t make me weak.
It makes me human.

There’s a deeper layer to this too — one that reaches back much further.

Growing up, I learned (implicitly, not consciously) that I wasn’t worthy of care. Not in an overt way, but in the quiet absence of being tended to. Needs weren’t met. Comfort wasn’t offered. And so a belief formed:

Care is not for me.

I still live with traces of that belief. I still have to override it. Caring for myself doesn’t come naturally — it comes intentionally. It has taken years of conscious effort to even recognise that I’m allowed to rest, nourish myself, and be gentle without having to earn it.

And yet, something important has become clear.

The more I care for myself overall, the less I need coping mechanisms.

Not because I’m forcing them away, but because the need behind them softens.

When I’m regulated, rested, and emotionally steadier, my eating becomes proportionate again. When I’m overwhelmed or emotionally isolated, my body looks for comfort wherever it can find it. That’s when old patterns return — not as failures, but as signals.

That shift in perspective matters.

This isn’t about willpower.
It’s about worth.

There’s also a part of me that has felt safer being big, strong, solid. There’s protection in size. Armour in weight. Losing weight, then, isn’t just a health goal — it touches something deeper. A question I’m still sitting with:

Can I feel safe without needing to be armoured?

I’m not rushing that answer.

What has helped — unexpectedly — is the gym. Not as a place of self-improvement, but as an act of care. Going regularly. Stretching. Moving my body. Being around other people quietly doing the same thing. There’s something regulating about that. Something relational, even without conversation.

I don’t go to get stronger.
I go to stay with myself.

It isn’t forced. It isn’t punishment. It’s a ritual of care — showing up, loosening my body, reminding myself that I matter enough to be tended to. And when I do that, some of those internal needs are met. Not all of them. But enough.

I can see now that my eating hasn’t been excessive across the board. My food is mostly nourishing. The issue isn’t what I eat — it’s when. Late at night. After holding too much. After days with no real place to land emotionally.

That’s where the weight has come from.

Not indulgence — endurance.

There’s grief in recognising that some needs can’t yet be met by other people. I want closeness. Chosen closeness. Healthy relationships. And there’s only so much of that I can control. That helplessness is real, and I’m no longer trying to bypass it.

What I’m learning instead is not to take it out on my body.

To notice when the urge to eat is really an urge to be held.
To rest.
To soften.
To belong.

Over the next 18 months — while I’m studying — and honestly, for the rest of my life, this feels like the real work. Learning how to care for myself properly. Optimising that care. Allowing rest where it’s needed. Letting care look different on different days.

Because how can I genuinely care for my son, for friends, for family, or for future clients, if I don’t know how to care for myself?

I don’t think I need to force weight loss.
I think it will fall away naturally as I stop abandoning myself.

I’m not trying to fix myself.

I’m learning to stay.

And that feels like the path forward.