A month ago I posted about my muddy run in London and noticing some bodily side effects:
it all adds up to a shit ton of alcohol, far too much junk food and not enough veg which ultimately means I have a lingering cold [..] and me going distinctly soft around the middle again.
Despite realising I wasn’t being kind to myself it wasn’t until last week that I a) finally got off my arse and made an effort to work out and b) stopped drinking. So a month of continued over-eating, little to no weight lifting and — I realised the other day — minimal activity of any kind as I’m not doing the school run every day. In fact, check out the disparity between June/July step counts and August (ignore May, I only got my Garmin half way through):
You don’t have to be a fitness guru to work out what the combined effects of more food and less exercise is going to be:
Two steps forward, one step back?
But this isn’t the end. I don’t want to just resign myself to being “a bit fatter” now. If I dwell on what I have done wrong, it’s going to drive me mad and madness brings comfort eating and binge drinking. I need to focus on, sure… I have put weight back on since March, but I am not the ‘me’ from July 2014. I can still squeeze into my size 12 jeans.
This is… no, this HAS to be motivation to try a little harder. Because there is no way in hell I’m going back to where I was before. Weight loss isn’t a one time thing where you put in some effort and bob’s your uncle. This battle is the rest of my life.