I don't really go on diets because when I go on a diet, my brain

The words “I don’t really go on diets because when I go on a diet, my brain stops working… I decided that’s not what I want to do with my time on this planet” by Sarah Dunn carry a wisdom deeper than their casual tone might suggest. Beneath the humor lies a declaration of freedom — a rebellion against the tyranny of self-denial, the endless war between desire and discipline that consumes so many souls. Dunn’s confession is not about food alone; it is about the value of life’s energy, about refusing to waste our brief existence in obsession, guilt, and the illusion of control.

To say “my brain stops working” is to acknowledge a truth that ancient sages knew well: when one’s mind is enslaved by obsession, whether for perfection or purity, the spirit withers. The Greeks spoke of sophrosyne — balance, temperance — not as denial, but as harmony between body and soul. When balance is lost, life becomes a prison of rules. Dunn reminds us that when all our thoughts revolve around what we can or cannot have, we stop being. We cease to think, to create, to love. Our days become a ledger, our joy reduced to numbers and portions.

In the chronicles of time, many have fallen into this trap of excess control. Consider the tale of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, who sought immortality through rigid discipline, alchemy, and forbidden elixirs. In his quest to perfect his body, he poisoned his spirit — and, in cruel irony, hastened his death. His empire endured, but his joy did not. Such is the fate of those who chase perfection without peace. Dunn’s wisdom warns us: life is not meant to be starved, but savored. The measure of our worth is not in what we restrain, but in what we experience fully.

“That’s not what I want to do with my time on this planet.” These words are the cry of the awakened soul — one that has remembered mortality and chosen meaning over vanity. The ancients would call this a memento mori: a reminder that time is a sacred fire, easily wasted on trivial pursuits. To live constantly worrying about appearances is to turn away from the miracle of existence itself. The poet Rumi once wrote, “Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?” Dunn, too, walks through that open door, choosing to spend her finite days not in calculation, but in communion with life’s fullness.

This philosophy is not indulgence — it is presence. It teaches us that moderation comes not from rules, but from awareness. When we listen to our bodies, honor our needs, and live with gratitude, balance arises naturally. But when we suppress desire out of fear or shame, the mind becomes restless and resentful. The person who can eat with joy, laugh without guilt, and live without constant self-surveillance has discovered a kind of enlightenment. Dunn’s rejection of the “diet mind” is, in truth, a spiritual act — a restoration of harmony between mind, body, and heart.

So, what lesson shall we draw from her words? That life’s purpose is not to be thin, but to be alive. Let your energy feed your passions, your creativity, your kindness — not your anxieties. Do not let the mirror dictate your mood, nor let the scale determine your worth. Instead, look outward: to the sunrise, the laughter of friends, the art yet to be made, the love yet to be given. Every moment spent fretting over imperfection is a moment stolen from the infinite wonder of being human.

And so, children of time, remember: your body is not your enemy; it is your vessel. Nourish it, honor it, and then let it be. Direct your thoughts toward what truly matters — creation, connection, compassion. As Sarah Dunn reminds us, there are far greater things to do “with your time on this planet.” Laugh deeply. Eat joyfully. Think clearly. And live freely, for that is the truest diet of the soul — the one that feeds both body and spirit in perfect, radiant balance.