I’ve been toying with the idea of going Paleo for a year.

Three weeks ago, my therapist asked me to go Paleo for two weeks — not necessarily because of the health benefits or nutritional benefits, but basically because it would cut off access for me from my preferred binge foods. So, I dutifully complied, including the cheat day she suggested. 

Thirteen days in, I decided to weigh myself.  Bad idea. After a month of regular gym-going and two weeks of Paleo, I was actually up a fraction of a pound.  

I was incredibly angry. I was angry at my body, because it felt like even when I was doing everything “right,” I was still being punished. My therapist asked me to throw away my scale and give it more time.  I went off the wagon for four days.

But yesterday I climbed back on a little half-heartedly. Today, I worked really hard at the gym. I’m having fruit and Paleo granola for breakfast. 

And I’m contemplating committing to this for a year. 

I’ve done a month.  I’ve done two weeks. Neither was enough to see big changes or lasting results. It wasn’t enough to truly break my bad habits or make cleaner eating a habit. It wasn’t enough to break me of my after-dinner sweets habit or my afternoon snack habit. 

A year might be. 

I’m saying a year instead of forever, because forever still hurts. I can’t think about forever without my moms chocolate chip cookies or bread. 

But a year is not forever.  It’s only 365 days. Anyone can do that.

I’m going to keep mulling it over and talk to my therapist about it on Thursday before I make any sweeping decisions, but it’s feeling right even as it feels insurmountable at the same time.

That’s probably a sign.