Judge me gently

or better yet, don't judge at all.

I am sorry I ate all the cookies and I have none to offer you. Fortunately there’s still plenty of choice for tea and coffee. I hope you’ll be kind to listen and not judge me.

Sitting on my living room sofa on a Thursday evening, browsing old journals, a jolt of disappointment runs through me. I look at an empty teacup and cookie crumbs on the coffee table, I look at the journal page, and I have to admit to myself that I sound like a broken record, repeating how I wish to write stories and eat healthy. On the journal pages, I see dreams and hopes, promises and plans—lots of words that echo empty.

My head knows the right and beneficial choices, and yet, over and over, I find myself behaving in ways that go against what my head says is right and what my future self would be grateful for.

Already five years ago, I wrote about making time for writing short stories and drafting books. I have nothing to show for it. Yes, I have written tons—journals filled with morning pages and ideas, weekly LinkedIn posts, Substack entries, occasional blog posts, book-length materials for workshops, and a thesis for a coaching course. I certainly find the time and have the discipline to write, and yet, when it comes to stories, I keep finding other things to do, with reruns of old TV shows consuming more time than anything else. I reach for the remote control rather than the keyboard.

Fine, if I don’t write stories or books, it’s not so detrimental. But the eating habits, in the long run, they destroy my health. Here again, it’s not that it’s completely out of control. I exercise regularly, walk daily, sleep well, eat my fair share of broccoli, sweet potatoes, beans, chicken, and cottage cheese. And then there are the evenings when I find myself eating a whole bag of potato chips and seven chocolate chip cookies after that. Not to mention my inability to say “no” to cake. Ever.

I feel sorry for my poor body that has to digest the mess and carry the weight. I manage to fool people because of my narrow face; I look leaner than the scales would suggest. My dance skills and flexibility add to the impression of being fit and fine.

Thinking of motivation, the benefits, and costs, I know that healthy eating outweighs short-lived pleasures, and avoiding unhealthy snacks saves both time and energy. So, it’s the cost of letting go of something that leads me to choose sugar and snacks over a leaner, stronger, low-blood-sugar self.

I feel I have a sneaky saboteur within. One that hides most of the time, letting me believe I am in control, capable of making sound decisions and planning my actions. My saboteur, either threatened by my success or purely out of malice, does its tricks and positions itself between my brain and hand, directing my hand to take yet another cookie, and one more, and switch TV channels.

I suspect that my saboteur is hedonistic, enjoying comfort and pleasures. I would understand it if I had starved as a child and clung to treats, but that’s not the case.

Once, during a family gathering in between bites of potatoes and pork, my mom said, “Since everyone is talking about being traumatised in childhood, is that what I have done? Do you need therapy because of me?” I could confidently answer that this was not the case. If anything, my parents provided me with a safe and happy childhood, no matter the scarcity and limitations imposed by Soviet times. Nor do I believe I carry the collective burden of centuries of slavery and decades of occupation of my small nation.

The saboteur is not my parents’ creation nor a historical leftover but rather a creature I picked up like a stray cat and unknowingly fed into a beast with a sneaky character and sharp claws.

The saboteur in me skillfully hides in the shadows and masterfully manipulates me, so most of the time I am not even aware of its presence. I haven’t truly seen it. I’m unsure of its species, gender, shape, size, or color.

I have become familiar with and accustomed to my inner critic. I wouldn’t say we’re friends now, but we’re certainly on amicable terms. I don’t take him too seriously, and I occasionally even appreciate and enjoy his company.

My saboteur doesn’t attend the inner team meetings—not for problem-solving, decision-making, or even celebrations. Could it be that my saboteur is like the thirteenth fairy, offended and vengeful because of the inattention?

See, my saboteur is so unknown that I can’t even tell whether it’s a beast or a fairy.

I can hear people saying, “Make a decision and stop eating pastries, chips, and five pizza slices. Stop complaining; take action. Cut the sugar and flour. Move more, eat less.” Solid doctor’s advice sounds so simple.

In my mind, nutritionists, coaches, and therapists reading this have their professional brains in full gear and are ready to jump off their sofas to rescue me. Please don’t judge or try to save me.

My self-compassion has grown over the years, so I don’t beat myself up too much for all the mistaken choices.

I believe in myself. I’m not giving up. I return to the dumbbells, the pen, and the broccoli. I also know that when I reach a point where I feel out of my depth, I will seek help from a coach, therapist, nutritionist, or personal trainer, as I have done before.

I will pull myself together to write the short stories, and one year, a book. Or two.

As for saboteur, I will keep my eyes open and try to catch it, and then explore with curiosity.

Thank you for being patient with me. I hope you are gentle to yourself too.

How can anyone ever say “no” to a cake?