Obviously I’m obsessed with the philosophy of enjoying whatever you want, whenever you want it. But there’s one thing in my life that isn’t so clear-cut.

Coffee. Beautiful, bitter, black coffee.

I’ve struggled with annoying digestive issues post-eating disorder, and I’ve tried cutting out all sorts of things to make it better. Gluten, nightshades, corn, dairy. I’ve had mixed results with all of it… except coffee.

I love coffee, but it doesn’t love me back. It took me a long time to come to terms with that. I’m a coffee person. I like the taste and ritual and community of it. I love the jolt. I’d come to see it as part of my identity.

I miss it the most when I’m feeling sad or tired or overwhelmed and craving a comforting pick-me-up. I miss it when I’m trying to bribe myself into facing something I don’t want to do. It’s exactly the way I used to feel about “bad” foods.

And because I know I “shouldn’t” have it, suddenly there’s an irresistible allure. Even crappy coffee. Like that gross watery stuff you make in hotel rooms —“OMG the temptation!!! Coffee, you temptress!!!”

That’s psychological deprivation in a nutshell, isn’t it? As soon as you tell yourself you can’t have something, suddenly it is unbelievably irresistible. Even garbage coffee. You forget that there even IS such a thing as garbage coffee.

It’s taken a lot of self-control to stay away from coffee every morning, but I’m more proud of what I have learned along the way: that it isn’t about self-control, really (luckily, since that has always been a slippery slope for me) but about self-love. My body is my partner in this life…why would I want to hurt it? I never once felt that way when I let diet culture dictate my existence. I’m so grateful I can hear what my body is saying now, and that I’ve learned to listen.