Panic at the Pancake

Today was supposed to be a regular Sunday. Massage, zen, gratitude, maybe a little scroll on Instagram. You know — Sunday things.

But just as I was floating back to Earth post-massage (bless my therapist, Ivy for untangling the knots in my hamstrings and in my soul), ping — a message from Jen of Daily Prana.
“Reminder: Our 21-Day Challenge starts this Tuesday, July 22!”

Insert internal screaming here.

I kid you not, I went straight into survival mode. I suddenly felt like I was being drafted into nutritional bootcamp. I panicked. And by panicked, I mean I RAN to the fridge and ate ice cream, pancakes, and Pringles like my life depended on it. I don’t even remember chewing. Just vibes and calories.

And because the universe has a wicked sense of humor, my husband decided to take me out to Portiko that night. Of course, I accepted. Because, hello? I was going to be starving in the next 21 days. What if they cut off carbs permanently? What if soup is all I ever know again?

I continued my binge-fest there like a woman on death row requesting her last meal. Pork Ribs. Calamare. Whatever was on that table — I demolished it. I even had a glass of margarita to toast the impending doom. Cheers to temporary gluttony.

Here’s the thing — I didn’t want to join this challenge. Been there, done that. I was still a newbie at Prana back then when I first joined. And sure, I lost the weight. But spoiler alert: I gained it back. Because apparently, “just doing the challenge once” doesn’t mean you’re set for life. Rude.

But I did make a promise. I told Master G, “I’ll join again once we’ve moved to Bacolod.” And you know what? I think she helped manifest the move. So now I’m stuck in this karmic loop — obligated by a promise, haunted by past weight gain, and emotionally supported by soup.

And while I joke a lot (because sarcasm is my default coping mechanism), I know deep down that I do need this.

I’ve stopped looking at myself in the mirror. Not because the mirrors are broken — but because I don’t like what’s looking back at me. My scale now whispers the word obese at me, and I can’t even argue with it. It’s like, “Ma’am, I don’t lie. I just measure.”

So maybe this isn’t just about soups and sweat and promises.

Maybe it’s about finally hitting reset.

Maybe it’s about liking what I see in the mirror again.

Maybe — just maybe — I’ll come out of this not just lighter in weight, but a little lighter in spirit too.

Here’s hoping.