“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.”
—Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592). French pioneer of the personal essay.

I tried to blame it on the boots.

I tried to blame it on the coat.

I tried to blame it on the sweater.

I tried to blame it on the scales.

I even tried to blame it on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But I knew deep down inside that on those occasions I made conscious choices to eat the rich foods that I served up for Gary and me, and sometimes for our guests. Turkey first, of course—sliced generously, then followed by ham, salty and sweet, and later a rack of lamb brought out because it felt like the season called for something a little special. Deep-dish pecan pie, glossy and heavy with syrup. Deep-dish apple pie, still warm, the kind that sinks slightly when the knife goes in. Golden fruitcake—dense, fragrant, unapologetic—cut thin and then, somehow, not so thin. Banana nut bread—the healthy version, of course—on the counter, always ready for just one more slice. Candy dishes everywhere, each one holding something different: chocolates, caramels, peppermints, specialty candies meant for guests but sampled daily. Taffy apple salad. Orange fluff salad. Cranberry sauce—homemade, of course—because it wouldn’t be the holidays without it. Gravy poured generously, more than once. Sourdough dinner rolls torn open while still warm, butter melting into the crumb. And wine—one bottle opened, then another, because it paired well, because it was already there, and because winter evenings stretch long. And it was good. All of it was good.

One or two overindulgences wouldn’t have been so bad. But what started with Thanksgiving rolled into Christmas, kept going through New Year’s, and here I am after a prolonged pig-out snow-in, blaming my weight on scales, sweaters, coats, and boots.

I know better. This is a repeat of last year and the year before, stretching back to the start of memory. All along my satiated journey, I knew what was happening. I sensed it in my body. I felt it in my clothes. I saw it in the mirror. Eventually, my day of reckoning came when I stepped on the scales, gasped, and sighed,

“Enough, Brent. Enough.”

I could veer off into a litany about all the reasons I overindulged. I have no doubt that you’ve heard them all already. Heard them all.

But I’ll plate up a few reasons anyway. Food is how we mark time. Holidays, snow days, long evenings, the stretch between Thanksgiving and New Year’s—meals become punctuation marks. We don’t just eat; we commemorate. One dinner leads to another, then another, until the season itself seems to demand a full plate.

Then there’s winter. The quiet. The staying in. Food keeps us company. It warms the house, fills the hours, shapes the day. A loaf on the counter, something sweet after supper, a little more than usual because there’s nowhere else to go and nothing much else to do.

None of this is shocking. None of this is new. But here’s the thing. Knowing why doesn’t change the outcome. It only explains how easily awareness can lag behind—until one morning, one glance, one number brings it all into focus.

I could dwell on all of that. But chances are you can already relate—whether in your own “appetite” life or in some other corner. You can relate to areas where you’ve lost an awareness—areas that need attention.  Maybe it’s your perennial garden beds overtaken by weeds. Maybe it’s your inbox overtaken by junk mail. Maybe it’s your personal and spiritual relationships overtaken by inattention. The list of “maybes” goes on and on.

But here’s the good news. We don’t need to rant and rave. We don’t need to blame our metaphorical sweaters, coats, and scales. And we don’t need to blame ourselves.

We only need to notice—and then course-correct.

Little by little.