Waiting for motivation that never comes

The other day, I had a proper “what’s the point?” moment.

Not a thoughtful evaluation of my priorities. Not a calm assessment of whether my current approach was still serving me. A full internal mutiny.

Why should I even care about my weight?

I have a happy life. I have a husband who loves me regardless. Nobody is standing at the entrance to my real life with a clipboard, refusing to let me through until I have lost a few pounds.

For a moment, it felt as though I was punishing myself for no good reason.

Meanwhile, there was a biscuit tin in the cupboard filled with the most delicious cookies. The kind of cookie I would lay down my life for, although apparently not my calorie deficit.

I felt utterly deprived and miserable. I could have eaten the whole tin, been sick, and then baked another batch because clearly the first one had not solved the problem.

Lack of motivation can sound remarkably sensible

The ridiculous part is that I have spent much of my life consumed by fat noise.

My weight has affected how I dress, how visible I feel, how I see photographs of myself and how much space my body occupies in my own thoughts. I know exactly why I care.

But in that moment, the argument for giving up sounded completely reasonable.

That is what makes waiting for motivation so dangerous.

A lack of motivation does not always arrive looking like laziness or defeat. Sometimes it turns up wearing glasses and carrying a folder marked Excellent Reasons Why None of This Matters.

It tells you that life is short. That you deserve enjoyment. That your husband loves you. That one tin of biscuits will not cause the collapse of civilisation.

All of those things may be true.

They are also entirely capable of escorting me back to the same place I have been trying to leave for most of my near half-century life.

I absolutely despise being on a diet

I think this deserves to be said plainly.

I hate dieting.

I also love food. I adore it. I think it is one of life’s greatest treasures.

I grew up in a family where food mattered. We cooked it, discussed it, looked forward to it and used it to celebrate, comfort and show love. I love cooking so much that I have managed to make food my hobby, my love language and, rather inconveniently for someone trying to lose weight, my occupation too.

Food is not just fuel to me. It is pleasure, creativity, memory and something interesting to do with an otherwise ordinary Tuesday.

So yes, I despise having to think before I eat. I hate knowing that the thing I most want is often the thing I have decided not to have. I resent the portions, the logging, the restraint and the endless awareness that one person in the room is making a sensible choice while everybody else appears to be living freely in a butter-laden paradise.

That person is always me.

Naturally, this can lead to feeling tremendously sorry for myself.

In those moments, I become convinced that I am the only person in the world who has ever had to endure such hardship. Nobody has ever wanted a biscuit before. Nobody has ever watched somebody else eat freely. Nobody has ever had to stop after a reasonable amount when continuing would have been spiritually fulfilling.

It is just me, alone at the coalface of calorie control.

I know this is absurd. It still feels true when I am in it.

That is part of the problem. Resentment can make deprivation feel like an injustice rather than a decision I made for reasons that still exist. It narrows my view until all I can see is what I cannot have right now, not what I am trying to gain later.

I do not suddenly become grateful for the diet when I remember this. I still hate it.

But hating it does not mean I should abandon it.

Motivation has never been a reliable employee

I do sometimes feel motivated.

Something inspires me. I see a result, read something that hits the right nerve or suddenly feel wildly determined to transform my entire life before teatime.

Then another thought comes along and motivation disappears within three seconds.

It has the attention span of a gnat and the work ethic of someone who has already handed in their notice.

Yet weight-loss advice speaks about motivation as though it is a dependable internal power source. Find your motivation. Stay motivated. Remember your motivation.

Who put motivation in charge of the entire diet industry?

I have been doing this for long enough to know that I cannot build anything lasting on a feeling that may vanish because I noticed a biscuit, had a disappointing morning or simply became bored.

I have waited for the lightning bolt before. Many times.

It did not strike.

There was no dramatic moment when I became a new woman who enjoyed restraint, stopped caring about food and sprang eagerly from bed to prepare vegetables.

There was only me again. Tired, doubtful, resentful and still responsible for what happened next.

I have seen this moment before

When motivation is absent, the most useful thing I can do is remember that none of this is new.

I have had the “what’s the point?” revelation before. I have decided that life is too short before. I have felt uniquely deprived, deeply misunderstood and personally victimised by a biscuit before.

Many, many times.

For years, some part of me still believed that I was waiting for the right solution. The plan that would finally make everything easy. The burst of motivation that would last. The shift in mindset that would remove the wanting, the resentment and the effort.

Admitting that there may be no magical solution was genuinely disappointing.

I did not want the answer to be repetition, restraint and carrying on when I did not feel like it. I wanted a discovery. Preferably one involving effortless weight loss and generous quantities of pastry.

But accepting that the magical answer was not coming has brought me further than waiting for it ever did.

That realisation has been strangely freeing.

Not inspiring. Not exciting. Freeing.

I no longer have to keep stopping to search for the feeling that will make this easy. I no longer have to interpret every miserable day as evidence that I have chosen the wrong approach. I can recognise the moment for what it is.

An old feeling.

An old argument.

An old exit I already know does not lead anywhere new.

Sometimes I have to do it like a robot

When motivation is absent, I try to stop consulting my feelings as though they are the senior management team.

I think logically.

Nobody is coming to save me from a decision that belongs to me. There is no perfect sentence somebody can say that will suddenly make weight loss feel fair. I do not have to feel enthusiastic about the next choice. I only have to make it.

Sometimes that means behaving almost robotically.

Leave the biscuit tin in the cupboard.

Eat the meal I had planned.

Log what I actually ate.

Do not open a lengthy internal enquiry into whether I deserve a cookie.

Carry on while complaining bitterly.

This is not an attractive portrait of discipline. I am not serenely choosing my health while sunlight falls across a bowl of berries. I am a disgruntled employee clocking in because experience has shown what happens when nobody turns up for the shift.

Sometimes I even give the voice telling me to eat the biscuit a personality. She is nasty, smug and far too confident that I will fold because I always have before.

On those days, I may not feel motivated enough to make the sensible choice, but I am occasionally petty enough to refuse to let her win.

Motivation is welcome, but it is not in charge

When there are signs that this is working, I take whatever motivation I can from them.

A lower number. Clothes fitting differently. A walk feeling easier. A moment when my body is not the first thing I think about.

I am not above using a carrot when one is available.

But there will also be stretches when the signs go quiet. Those are the times to batten down the hatches, stop overthinking and exercise the small, unpleasant muscle of restraint.

Not forever. Not perfectly. Just for the decision in front of me.

I do not need to pretend I enjoy it. I do not need to be grateful for the opportunity to resist a biscuit. I am allowed to resent the whole tedious business and feel magnificently sorry for myself.

What I cannot keep doing is treating every resentful feeling as new information.

I have had this feeling before.

I know where it leads.

So the biscuit tin stays in the cupboard. I remain spectacularly unmotivated. Nothing magical happens.

And, rather annoyingly, it works.