Body love

It's January again, the month of good intentions. Healthy living, less alcohol, more balance, and of course: shedding those pounds!

Three months in Italy have left me with a questionable extra supply of "self." I've been living like a god, adhering to the daily mantra of "antipasto-primo-secondo-dolce". But as effortlessly as the pasta seems to flow through Italian bodies, it clings just as stubbornly to my Northern European one. The craving for winter provisions and thick layers of insulation is ingrained in my Northern DNA.

Luckily, I've found a reset button. Twelve years ago, I stumbled upon the book "The Four Hour Body," by the intrepid Tim Ferris, who previously achieved fame with his similarly named four-hour workweek. Tim is relentless. Relentless in his curiosity, relentless in his drive, and relentless in what he does to his own body to achieve his goals. Whether he wants to win the world sumo wrestling championship or use his own body as a test tube for nutritional supplements, he pushes himself to the limit and usually achieves his goals.

What appealed to me about his book was the "slow-carb" diet. Tim boasted that, despite being allowed to eat as much as he wanted—including a weekly "cheat day" where he could eat absolutely anything—he'd still lost a significant amount of weight. This resonated with me: I'd never been much of a dieter; diets were far too restrictive and highly incompatible with the indulgent lifestyle I led. But then again, I had been gaining pounds a few years in a row.

So I went "slow carb" for a summer. It was a wonderful time, one where I remember barbecuing every day with friends and family, downing litres of beer, and (at that time still) happily puffing away. The only things I avoided were the hard carbs like bread, potatoes, and pasta. Once a week was a cheat day. Then, following Tim's example, pizza, pasta, and sweet desserts returned to the table to properly reset the system. Meanwhile, I continued to go to the gym three times a week and did my running laps.

This regimen worked like a charm: I quickly went from a chubby 78kg to 70kg and only 12% body fat. Meanwhile, I felt fantastic! I noticed the biggest difference while running: those lost kilograms made me feel as light as a feather, and I danced through the streets faster than ever.

I've kept a breakfast recipe from this period, which Lydia and I still eat almost daily: fried eggs with lentils. No one understands it, but it's delicious!

After this initial success, I've regularly revisited the slow-carb diet. But never with the same overwhelming results as the first time. I think my body has gotten used to less sugar, and perhaps I'm no longer as dedicated as I was that first summer, when it was still a new and fun experiment.

After that, I've only been lighter once, as a result of chemo and a stem cell transplant. But that's cheating!

Back to now. My doctor is urging me to watch my weight and limit my sugar intake: the daily dose of prednisone is driving my blood sugar levels up and pushing me toward early-stage diabetes. So I'm dutifully going back to the slow-carb diet.

To spice up my diet attempts, I've added a bit of tech this time. Using two devices attached to my skin, I now measure ketones and glucose every five minutes. Ketones appear in the blood when fat is burned, which only happens when all the sugars are gone. If you stick with it for a while, the body goes into keto mode, a kind of bonus for consistent behaviour that then triples the fat burning. I can now track all of this on a graph. Meanwhile, my weight is steadily decreasing. Although I'll never reach 70 kg again. At least, without cheating with chemo.

It's all very nice and useful, it's good to have a reset button. But why am I even doing this? Of course, I have a doctor who tells me I shouldn't be overweight. But my BMI is still well within the normal range. Is it perhaps a bit of body shame after all? I'm afraid so. When I look in the mirror and see that cute roll of fat hanging below my belly button, I think: get rid of it! I'm not okay like this. When I walk down the street, I catch myself looking at men my age and comparing whether they have more or less body fat than I do.

Something inside me wants me to look "good." What is that? Why do I need that? Can I still love myself if I'm overweight?

Here in Cape Town, I regularly see Black women proudly displaying their curvaceous bodies, wrapped in tight spandex to further accentuate their curves. Not shame, but pride!

Could I also be so ostentatiously in love with my rolls of fat? I feel inhibited. Guilt and shame battle for dominance. It's not healthy to be fat! What an undisciplined wimp I am!

After all those lessons in self-love, embracing who I am, I now fall short when it comes to my physical appearance. It's an ingrained insecurity, partly stemming from the Darwinian urge to outshine the competition, partly rooted in our culture of celebrating outward display.

And that uncertainty is reinforced by knowledge and fears about health. This is the driving force behind half of TikTok and Instagram. Its one hundred percent human, and I am not an exception.

But still, I want to be able to love myself. My whole self, all of it. Unconditionally. The whole package. Regardless of any extra pounds or rolls of fat.

Maybe that's a better resolution for January, for all of us to adopt:

Love yourself!