“I anticipated the allure of unlimited breakfast on Saturdays each week. I would dive into an array of pork sausages, bacon, tomatoes, potatoes, cheese and onion hash, rosti potatoes, ketchup, mayonnaise and white bread, revelling in my overflowing plates. The joy of going back for seconds—and sometimes thirds—was a blissful experience that left me feeling utterly satisfied, as if I had just completed a grand culinary journey.

In those moments, I would lean back, full and content, convinced that I wouldn't need to eat again until the next day. How naive I was, for soon, the familiar tug of hunger would lead me back to the fridge to eat again.

After devouring an extravagant spread, my stomach churned one fateful Saturday. It wasn’t just a slight discomfort; it was an overwhelming wave of nausea that hit me hard.

That unsettling feeling became my wake-up call. The unmistakable “enough is enough” warning prompted me to ask, “What is wrong with me?”

Whenever I stepped on the scale, it would malfunction. I found humour in it, joking about how many scales I had broken. Beyond just feeling hungry, I was constantly bombarded by intense cravings for food. My battle with the fridge was lost—it emerged victorious at 0:1. I weighed around 161kg. The habit of midnight snacking became a ritual; living with relentless hunger was not just my reality but a haunting nightmare I couldn’t escape. I increased my physical activity, and an unexpectedly ravenous appetite came with it. I started consuming much more food, and after dedicating six months to intensive tennis and volleyball, I noticed I had gained a few more kilograms.”