My days fold into a pattern: early mornings with journaling, work from 8 until midday in a small office cubicle, then back home to prep meals rigidly. The work stress presses in, email chains piling up and a boss who dismisses any suggestion that interrupts the routine.
Lunch is a quick, measured affair, always with a careful eye on my app’s calorie count. Evenings are filled with the quiet tension of trying new recipes from the diet book, yet questioning if this plan truly fits me or if I’m just chasing an invisible goal.
There’s a subtle but constant power imbalance with my workplace manager, who controls not just my hours but also my performance reviews.
“I think you’re doing great with your tasks,” a colleague says, trying to reassure me.
Suggestions on workload often meet silence or mild reprimand, and discussions veer away whenever I bring up the visible stress and fatigue.
At home, Alex’s casual disregard for my strict diet feels like a silent judgment—I hear comments about how “this diet thing” is just a phase, and those remarks sting more than they should.
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