On a chilly autumn morning in 2013, I quit my last diet. I was running through the woods, in the middle of one of those warrior-style workouts, when it happened. I had spent every day of my conscious life believing that if I could just find the right way to eat then my body would be transformed, and so would everything else in my life. None of the countless diets and nutritionist-prescribed eating plans had actually worked, but that didn’t stop me from believing in them — only in myself. Once I got my shit together, found the right plan and stuck to it, then everything would fall into place. Once my body was fixed, my real life could begin. I would be more social, more relaxed, my love life would blossom, and my career would flourish. The little things too, would be different; I would make my bed and learn to style my hair instead of just throwing it in a ponytail every day. I would do all those things that normal people did, because at last I would be normal, too. It was my deepest, most unshakeable belief. And all at once, that autumn morning, it dawned on me that none of it was true.