Hunger was not just a feeling in my stomach.
It was a voice.
It followed me everywhere—quiet at first, polite, almost reasonable. It waited for the moments when I was tired, distracted, or alone. It didn't scream. It whispered.
Just this once.
You deserve it.
No one would know.
The first week of cutting everything unnecessary from my diet felt unreal. My body reacted as if I had betrayed it. Headaches came in waves. My thoughts slowed. Sometimes, standing up too fast made the room spin.
People joked about hunger like it was a badge of honor. Something temporary. Something you pushed through with motivation and playlists.
They were wrong.
Hunger stripped you.
It revealed how weak your discipline really was.
I sat in class staring at the board while the professor talked about theories I barely registered. My attention drifted constantly to the smell of food drifting in from the hallway. Someone had fries. Someone else opened a pastry.
The scent hit me like an insult.
My stomach tightened painfully, growling loud enough that the guy beside me glanced over. I didn't look back. I focused on breathing slowly, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth like I'd read somewhere. A trick to suppress appetite.
It helped.
Barely.
During lunch breaks, I avoided the cafeteria. I knew myself well enough to know that exposure was dangerous. I sat outside instead, chewing on meat that tasted bland and repetitive.
Fuel.
That was the word I used in my head.
Not food. Not pleasure. Fuel.
Some days, it worked.
Other days, I stared at my container for long minutes, my hands hovering, my mind bargaining with itself.
Add rice. Just a little.
You trained hard yesterday.
You're doing enough already.
I learned something important during those moments.
Motivation didn't disappear suddenly.
It eroded.
Slowly.
Silently.
At night, hunger was worse. The gym drained me, and exhaustion lowered my defenses. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my stomach aching in a dull, persistent way that made sleep feel distant.
That's when the memories came.
Comfort foods. Late-night snacks. Eating not because I was hungry, but because I didn't want to feel anything.
I clenched my jaw and turned onto my side.
This time, I let myself feel it.
The discomfort.
The emptiness.
The frustration.
I didn't distract myself.
I endured.
The gym noticed me before people did.
Not in a dramatic way. Not with praise or nods of approval. But in small, mechanical responses. Weights that felt slightly lighter. Movements that felt a little more controlled.
I learned the difference between pain and injury.
Pain burned.
Injury stabbed.
Pain could be negotiated with. Injury demanded respect.
That distinction alone kept me consistent.
I stopped looking around between sets. Stopped comparing myself to the men who lifted twice what I did with half the effort. Comparison had nothing to offer me.
I tracked progress instead.
Reps.
Time.
Recovery.
Objective things.
Things that didn't lie.
At college, nothing changed.
At least not outwardly.
I was still invisible. Still ignored. Still dismissed.
But something inside me had shifted.
When people laughed nearby, my shoulders didn't tense the same way. When someone brushed past me, my body no longer reacted before my mind.
I noticed it one afternoon when I dropped my pen during a lecture.
I bent down to pick it up.
And didn't feel embarrassed.
That should've scared me.
But it didn't.
It felt like relief.
The mirror became less hostile.
Not friendly.
But neutral.
I studied myself without judgment. My face still looked the same. My body was still far from impressive. But there was less softness around the edges. Less surrender in my posture.
I wasn't winning.
But I wasn't losing anymore.
The hardest days were the quiet ones.
Days without insults. Without setbacks. Without anything to react to.
Just routine.
Wake up.
Eat.
Train.
Study.
Sleep.
Those days tested me more than humiliation ever did.
Because there was no emotional fuel.
No anger.
No shame.
Just choice.
One evening, after a particularly brutal workout, I stood in the locker room longer than usual. My shirt clung to my skin, soaked through. My arms felt heavy, useless, trembling as I tried to pull it off.
I caught my reflection in the mirror.
For a second, I didn't recognize myself.
Not because I looked strong.
But because I looked present.
There was tension in my body even at rest. My jaw was set. My eyes weren't searching for approval or escape.
They were calm.
That calm terrified me.
Because it meant this wasn't temporary.
It meant I was changing.
Real change demanded something from you.
It demanded that you let go of the person you used to be.
Not just physically.
Emotionally.
The one who waited.
The one who hoped.
The one who stayed quiet because silence felt safer than conflict.
I felt hunger again that night.
Not in my stomach.
In my chest.
A hunger for space. For boundaries. For weight behind my words.
I thought about the guy who had bumped into me weeks ago. How easily he had laughed. How certain he'd been that nothing would happen.
I didn't fantasize about revenge.
I imagined something else.
What it would feel like to stand still.
Not move out of the way.
Not shrink.
Just exist.
That thought stayed with me.
At college, a small moment tested it.
I was walking through the hallway when two guys stopped abruptly in front of me, talking loudly. Normally, I would've slowed down, adjusted my path, avoided contact.
This time, I didn't.
I kept walking.
One of them noticed at the last second, stepping aside with a look of mild surprise.
"Watch it," he said, not aggressively.
I met his eyes.
Didn't glare.
Didn't apologize.
Just held his gaze for a breath too long.
Then I walked past.
My heart hammered in my chest, adrenaline flooding my system as if I had just lifted my heaviest set. My hands shook slightly.
But I didn't feel weak.
I felt awake.
That night, hunger returned stronger than ever. My body craved comfort. Rest. Release.
I stood in my kitchen, staring at the fridge, hand on the handle.
I opened it.
Cold air spilled out.
Options stared back at me.
I closed it.
Sat down at the table instead.
Put my head in my hands.
This wasn't heroic.
It was miserable.
But it was honest.
I stayed there until the urge passed.
Minutes stretched.
Sweat cooled on my skin.
Eventually, hunger quieted.
Not defeated.
Just postponed.
I went to bed knowing something important.
Discipline wasn't about being strong all the time.
It was about not negotiating with weakness.
Even when it spoke in your own voice.
When I fell asleep, my muscles still ached. My stomach was empty. My mind was exhausted.
But underneath it all, there was something solid forming.
Not confidence.
Foundation.
And foundations don't look impressive.
They're buried.
Hidden.
But they hold everything that comes after.