Ugh.

When things seem easy, they’re usually not. And if there’s one thing I’m particularly gifted at, it’s making simple things infinitely harder than they need to be.

This was no exception.

I have always had a portion control problem. My eyes? Huge. My stomach? Unimpressed. My mother? A relentless enforcer of the “waste not, want not” doctrine, with a side of guilt-trip about starving children in foreign countries. So, like any good kid, I listened. And when you’re a hyperactive little chipmunk zooming around at 100 mph, scarfing down an entire adult-sized meal doesn’t really register as a problem.

But then adulthood happened. And stress. And menopause. (Which, by the way, is a raging, fire-breathing she-demon sent to test our limits.) My metabolism, once a roaring bonfire, dwindled into a flickering birthday candle. Meanwhile, my appetite was still throwing all-you-can-eat buffets into the mix. Next thing I knew, “a bowl of cereal” meant a Cool Whip tub filled to the brim.

Not sustainable.

So, in a rare moment of adulting, I decided to try. Not a crash diet. Not starving myself. Not some ridiculous cleanse involving cayenne pepper and regret. Just… making an effort to eat like a person who understands biology.

Enter intermittent fasting. Again. The idea? No eating at night, break the fast around 10 a.m., and give my digestive system a break for 14 hours. It’s doable. It doesn’t make me want to throw things. Progress.

And then I discovered the plate. A fancy little portion-control plate that literally spells it out for me like I’m a toddler. But the real game-changer? The bowl. The first time I used it, I stared at the sad little portion and thought, This? This is a serving size?! Is this a joke? Is this America???

But here’s the thing—it’s working.

Gone are the days of chasing unrealistic “lose five pounds a week” goals. That’s not safe, it’s not sustainable, and frankly, it’s exhausting. Slow and steady is the name of the game. One bite-sized victory at a time. I’m playing the long game—keeping myself upright, functional, and hopefully, not homicidally hangry.

Because if menopause is gonna fight me, I might as well come prepared.