Stop Bargaining With Yourself

The old version of you doesn’t always win by force; sometimes he wins by paperwork.

He sits there in your head with a cheap suit, a clipboard and a smug little face, offering terms that sound reasonable enough in the moment. Start Monday. Just this once. You’ve earned it. You’re tired. You’ve had a hard day. One treat won’t matter. You can make up for it tomorrow.

And because changing is hard, you listen.

That is the bit people don’t always understand. It isn’t a heroic battle between good choices and bad choices. It’s a negotiation. A daily, boring, exhausting negotiation with the version of you that knows all your weaknesses, all your soft spots, all your favourite lies and exactly where the emergency snacks are hidden.

The damage doesn’t begin with a dramatic collapse. It begins with a deal.

I’ll be good all week, then I’ll have a cheat meal. Or.

I’ll start properly on Monday. Or.

I’ll just have this one thing. Or.

I’ll rest today and double up tomorrow. Or.

I’ll scroll for five minutes. Or.

I’ll get back on it after the weekend.

The deals sound small. Manageable. Almost sensible.

And sometimes it is. Life can’t be lived like a prison sentence. You need flexibilityand enjoyment. You need room to breathe, laugh, eat something nice, go out, see people and not act like one sausage roll is an ethical dilemma, or worse, a crime.

But there is a difference between living and bargaining.

I’m starting to realise I’ve spent a frightening amount of my life at the negotiating table.

The Treat Isn’t the Reward

One of the strangest things about trying to change is how quickly we look for a reward for being good little boys.

You start eating better. You move more. You drag yourself through the first few days of effort. You make choices that align with the future you claim to want. Then almost immediately, some part of your brain asks what treat it gets.

That’s weird when you look at it properly.

The reward for changing should be the change. Better health, more energy, less pain more confidence and more years. More time actually living rather than just dragging yourself through the day like a depressed donkey in shoes.

Yet, we don’t always see that as the reward. Not at first. We look at the cheat meal. The drink on a Friday night. The takeaway. The chocolate. The thing we’ve been conditioned to see as payment for effort.

A wee carrot for our troubles.

Although if your treat is literally a carrot, you’re basically an ass. Not that there’s anything wrong with carrots. They’ve done nothing to deserve this slander.

The problem is not having some treats. We all need pleasure in life. We all need food we enjoy, nights off, laughter, comfort and moments that don’t feel like we’re trying to pass an exam in self-denial. The problem is when the treat becomes the point. When the whole plan quietly shifts from “I’m changing my life” to “I’m working hard so I can earn the thing that keeps pulling me backwards.”

That is where the deal becomes destructive.

It turns food into a golden prize. It makes the old behaviour feel like the trophy. It idolises the very thing that already has too much emotional power.

If you’ve struggled with weight, cravings or food addiction, you’ll know how dangerous that can be. Food becomes the answer to everything. Celebration, comfort, boredom, sadness, stress, reward, punishment, escape. Everything except health, wealth and happiness, obviously. Bit of a design flaw there.

The old version of me is very good at offering food as the reward. The better version of me is trying to ask for something else.

Not punishment. Not misery. Sustenance and fuel. Food that helps. Obviously food that still tastes good. I’m not trying to live on dust and moral superiority, but food that supports the direction I’m trying to go.

The irritating thing is that the food I look to for comfort often does the opposite. It makes me tired, heavier, flatter and more frustrated. The food I avoid is often the food that would actually give me the thing I’m chasing. Energy. Stability. Less chaos. Less regret.

There’s a disconnect there between body and brain that I still don’t fully understand. Maybe something went wrong somewhere. Childhood trauma with a Brussel sprout, perhaps. Who knows.

But the better version of me does know something important.

He knows the deal is usually bullshit. Smug bastard.

The Gnome of Doom

The voice in my head isn’t really a voice of negotiation; it’s a voice of surrender.

It doesn’t calmly debate both sides like a respectable courtroom drama. It doesn’t weigh evidence and reach a balanced conclusion. It knows I can’t do this and tells me constantly. Every day it says, give it up. You’re tired. That sugary thing will help. You’ll feel better. You’ve tried before. Everyone expects you to quit anyway.

It’s like a drug dealer with a loyalty card.

That inner voice uses every crack in the armour. It tells you it’s too hard. It reminds you of every past failure. It dresses surrender up as comfort. It doesn’t always sound cruel. Sometimes it sounds tired. Sometimes it sounds kind. Sometimes it sounds like it’s only trying to protect you from disappointment.

But really, it’s the gnome of doom standing on your shoulder insisting you give up.

Fucking gnomes.

The gnome is wrong, of course. I can do this. I will do this. My biggest doubter is probably myself; I hope it is, at least. If someone else is spending that much time thinking about my failure, they need a better hobby.

My loopholes are predictable. Food. Restarts. Waiting for Monday. Telling myself I’ll get serious later. Monday is my best friend and my worst enemy. Everything starts on a Monday, which means most things fail on a Monday. Everyone has their Monday. Mine is literally Monday, because apparently I like my symbolism obvious.

The “start again” attitude can be a saviour if you have a slip. There’s nothing wrong with starting again. In fact, starting again is essential. But when it becomes the crutch you use to avoid the reality that you’re not really trying right now, it becomes a problem.

That’s where “just this once” comes in.

Just this once is the biggest lie in my arsenal of bullshit.

I know it isn’t true. I know it in the same way someone with an alcohol problem knows “one more drink” isn’t really one more drink. There’s nothing wrong with sometimes, but in the early stages, sometimes is a dangerous little word. You can’t go cold turkey with food, but you also can’t always find balance in “sometimes” either.

And food is everywhere.

People bring treats into work. Birthdays happen. BBQs happen. Social events happen. There are celebrations we’ve invented just to stop the year feeling like a long grey corridor. Oh look, it’s International Wear Odd Socks Day. Let’s get cake.

But if you say no to cake, you become the miserable bastard ruining the mood.

That’s a strange thing when you think about it. People wouldn’t offer heroin to a drug addict or gin to an alcoholic, but food is different because everyone needs it and everyone uses it socially. If I say no, it’s not because I want to ruin your day. It’s because I’m trying to avoid a massive heart attack later on, which may ruin your day slightly more.

That is one of the hardest parts of this.

You’re not only negotiating with yourself. You’re negotiating with culture, habit, politeness, social pressure, your past, your cravings and someone holding a tray of cakes as if they’re offering community spirit rather than future regret in icing form.

Tomorrow Is a Dangerous Promise

The old version of me always offers tomorrow. For the last 30 years, I’ll start tomorrow.

Let me tell you, 30 years is a long fucking day.

Tomorrow sounds comforting because it keeps the fantasy alive. It doesn’t feel like quitting. It feels like postponing. It lets you believe the plan still exists, just not quite yet. You’re not giving up. You’re preparing. Resetting. Waiting for a better start line.

Except tomorrow has been taking the piss.

Tomorrow is dangerous because you think it will always be there. And it won’t. One day you’ll say tomorrow for the last time. If tomorrow is always your time to start, you will run out of time sooner. Tomorrow isn’t as far away when you’re overweight, unhealthy, tired and carrying risks you can’t keep pretending are theoretical.

It gets closer. And closer. And closer.

Then it’s gone.

So are you.

That sounds brutal because it is. Maybe it needs to be, sometimes soft language lets us keep lying to ourselves. I’m not saying fear should be the whole fuel source. Fear on its own can become panic, shame and paralysis. But ignoring consequence doesn’t make consequence disappear. It just gives it more time to set up camp.

The cost of making deals with the old pattern is not zero.

It costs sanity and pride. Energy and years. A sports bra, potentially, which I maintain looks better on almost everyone else.

It costs you time with the life you want. It gives you more time in the compromise you’re already living. More tiredness. More aches. More shame. More “one day.” More watching the version of yourself you could be drifting further down the road because you keep accepting comfort today and sending the bill to tomorrow.

That is one deal I’m no longer willing to make.

I start tomorrow.

No.

If I stumble, I start straight after. If I’m sore, I do what I can. If I’m tired, I push until I’m done. If I’m grumpy, I shout at stupid people, which is all people, so that should keep me busy.

Tomorrow can’t keep being the answer. Right now has to be. Not perfect. Not heroic. Not all-or-nothing. Right now.

That is where standards matter. They give you guardrails for change. They also give you positive triggers. They remind you of the person you’re trying to become. The more visible you make them, the more you weave them into ordinary life, the better chance you have.

You can negotiate with a craving.

You can negotiate with a mood.

You can negotiate with tiredness.

You can even negotiate with a bacon roll, and right now as I write this, I am absolutely jonesing for one. Or two.

Porridge it is then.

But you can’t negotiate with your standards.

That doesn’t mean you’ll always live up to them perfectly. Of course you won’t, but if you eat the burger, you haven’t destroyed everything. Go back to your standards and don’t continue to gorge yourself into the next postcode. Everything in moderation, yes, but you need to learn how to manage that moderation rather than using it as a legal loophole for chaos.

Flexibility is not the same as letting yourself off the hook.

That’s hard to judge when you’re the sort of person who doesn’t naturally live in the in-between. But the question is simple enough, even if the answer is not.

Are you using flexibility to live, or to cheat yourself?

Deep down, you usually know. Even if you can’t access it cleanly in the moment, some part of you knows whether this is life happening or the old pattern reopening the shop.

Ask yourself: if I have this, will I fall off completely?

Ask yourself: if I have this, will I regret it later?

That second one is tricky, because realistically you don’t always know. But if you listen closely enough, you start to recognise the flavour of the decision before you make it.

Regret tastes bitter.

And “treat” might be the wrong word anyway. It idolises food again. Maybe it’s not a treat. Maybe it’s culinary agility. Consuming different textures and flavours as part of a functioning life.

Fuck treats.

They’re for cats.

Accountability Is the Kindness

There isn’t one magic phrase that cuts through all the bullshit for me.

I wish there was. That would be easy. It would be transformative. Also copyrighted. Then sold for a hefty number of Twix’s.

What I have instead is a series of self-challenges. None of them have stuck perfectly so far, but I keep trying. Keep experimenting. Today’s are:

Does this advance your goals?

Does it taste better if you have it less?

What does Monday have that right now doesn’t?

Those questions don’t always work, but sometimes they create just enough space between the craving and the action. Sometimes that space is all you need. Not to become a different person instantly. Just to interrupt the pattern.

However, action is usually the best way to change a pattern.

If you keep losing the argument in your head, remember something uncomfortable: you’re arguing with yourself. If one version of you can win tha argument, another version can too. I realise that sounds like I’ve just fallen down a motivational staircase, but the point stands. You know your opponent better than anyone else. You know its tricks, weaknesses, timing and lies.

Use that.

When you feel the devil, or the gnome, or whatever weird little creature your brain has been appointed to the sabotage committee, treat it as a call to action. Check your standards. Go for a walk. Scratch the itch a different way. Cut the grass. Move. Learn. Play. Do something that changes the channel.

Not because action solves everything, but because action breaks the spell.

That is also where kindness comes in, although not the soft, useless version where you tell yourself everything is fine while quietly making the same mistake for the eight thousandth time.

Accountability is the greatest kindness you can give yourself when you’ve got yourself into a bad situation.

Not self-flagellation. Beating yourself up doesn’t help. There is a difference between blame and accountability. Blame parks the car and stays there. It wants punishment. It wants shame. It wants you to sit in the mess and call it honesty.

Accountability is different.

Accountability says: this happened, I played a part, what do I learn, what do I change, what do I do next?

That’s not guru bullshit, even if it can sound like it when written down. It’s practical. Instead of saying, “Idiot, you knew that was a bad decision,” ask, “I knew the outcome was likely to be this, so how can I avoid it next time?”

The first sentence makes you smaller.

The second gives you work to do.

That’s the difference.

The honest closing message is not “never compromise.” That would be nonsense. Life is to be lived. You can’t live at 300lbs, but you probably can’t live like a monk either. Not unless you have a much calmer brain than mine and a wardrobe made entirely of brown, itchy robes.

You may need to be stricter at the beginning. That’s fair. You may need tighter guardrails while the old habits are still loud and the cravings still think they own the place. Over time, maybe you loosen the ties a little. Maybe you learn balance. Maybe you find your version of moderation that doesn’t send you straight back to the bottom of the hill.

But never forget how you got here.

That is not punishment. It’s memory.

When something nice becomes constant craving, take action. When comfort becomes surrender, take action. When tomorrow starts offering another deal, take action.

Move. Learn. Play. Walk. Cook. Write. Lift. Rest properly. Call yourself out without destroying yourself. Laugh at the madness if you need to, because sometimes humour is the only way to look directly at the truth without being crushed by it.

Just do something.

The old version of you is a skilled negotiator.

So stop giving him the pen.

Disclaimer: This article reflects personal perspectives and experiences relating to food, weight, fitness, mindset and wellbeing. It is intended for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment.