I’ve been thinking a lot on my runs recently - specifically about the discrepancy between progress and presence.

Last year I lost over 70 pounds.

Something I’m genuinely proud of. It didn’t happen by accident - it took discipline, consistency, and showing up through good times and bad.

And as someone who’s been an emotional eater their whole life, that matters to me.

Those tendencies don’t just disappear. They quieten, but they’re always there.

Something I’ve become really aware of lately is how, when I’m locked in on fat loss or transformation journey, I start wishing time away.

Weekdays become something to get through.

Nights become checkpoints. The weekend weigh-in becomes the moment that matters. If I can just get to bed having eaten the “right things”, hit a certain calorie target, then I know I’ll weigh less by the weekend.

And so the week almost stops counting.

That’s hard to admit.

Because what I’m really hoping the scale gives me isn’t just a number.

In a stupid way, it’s worth. Or proof.

A little check mark that says, “You can be the person you say you’re going to be.”

And I think that’s where things get difficult.

Practically, I know my worth isn’t tied to a number on a scale. I know I’m not less worthy because I’m heavier, or more worthy because I’m lighter.

But emotionally, that wiring still pulls me. When nothing changes for a week, I can lose my head a bit. I start questioning what I did wrong. I feel different about myself.

I would never speak to someone else the way I speak to myself in those moments - especially when I know most short-term weight gain is water, food volume, inflammation, stress…

I know all of that. And still, it can feel like failure.

That’s the tension I’m sitting with right now.

What would change if the process was the point, not the obstacle?

If the practice itself mattered as much as the outcome?

If I could pursue progress without putting my life on pause while I wait for validation?

This idea of delaying life keeps showing up for me in other ways too.

Every winter, without fail, my mood shifts. Negatively.

It’s taken me until my late thirties to really accept this about myself. I’m a different person in winter.

I need warmth. Light. Sun.

And for years now I’ve had this quiet, persistent thought: “…if I don’t at least trial living somewhere else, at some point in my life - even just for six months or a year - I’ll regret it.”

I love England. We have family here. Friends. Roots.

And of course there’s fear.

Fear of disrupting the kids.

Fear of it not being the dream we thought.

Fear of leaving older relatives behind.

Those fears are real, and they matter.

But there’s also an opportunity cost to waiting.

Another year becomes easy to add on. Then another. Then another. Until one day, you can’t really enjoy it even if you wanted to. And I know, deep down, that future-me would be grateful - not necessarily for getting it right - but for being brave enough to try.

That seems to be the common thread in all of this.

Not weight. Not countries.

But noticing where I’m postponing life.

Where I trade presence today for the promise of something later.

Where discipline helps me grow - and where it quietly steals joy.

I don’t have this solved. I’m not pretending I do. These are just the thoughts that come up when I run slowly, without headphones, and let my mind wander.

If there’s one thing I keep coming back to, it’s this: progress matters.

But not at the cost of being here wishing away the experiences that create the end result.

And that’s something I’m only just learning to understand.

— Chris

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