Statistically, if you have ever dieted you are extremely likely

“Statistically, if you have ever dieted you are extremely likely not only to regain any weight you lose, but to go on to gain even more. Dieting makes you fat.”
So spoke Arabella Weir, in a tone both sorrowful and defiant — a cry against a world obsessed with the illusion of perfection. Her words are not merely a rebuke to the flesh, but to the spirit that starves itself chasing shadows. Beneath the surface of this modern lament lies an ancient truth: that which we fight against with fear, we often strengthen by our resistance. The heart that wars against itself cannot find peace, nor the body that is ruled by shame find balance.

The meaning of Weir’s statement is a paradox: that restriction breeds excess, and that in the desperate attempt to conquer the body, we awaken the deeper forces of hunger, craving, and rebellion. She points to a cycle as old as humanity — the swing from famine to feast, from denial to indulgence. The body, like a faithful servant long mistreated, remembers every deprivation. When it is starved, it learns fear; when it is fed again, it clings to plenty, preparing for the next war. Thus, dieting makes you fat, not because food is the enemy, but because fear is.

Long ago, in the days of the Roman Republic, there was a general named Lucullus, famed for his banquets. Once a man of moderation, he returned from years of conquest to a city that demanded restraint and virtue. Desiring to appear disciplined, he declared he would live simply and renounce the lavish feasts he had once enjoyed. But his soul, long accustomed to abundance, rebelled. His “modest” dinners soon turned grand again — and greater still than before. The more he resisted, the more opulent his tables became, until senators whispered that he dined like a god while others starved. Lucullus’ fall was not from gluttony alone, but from self-denial turned to obsession. He became captive to the very pleasures he sought to master.

Arabella Weir’s words, then, are not a judgment upon those who eat, but a lament for those who live at war with themselves. In the mirror of the modern world, the body has become an idol to be sculpted and punished, not loved and understood. Diets promise transformation, yet too often deliver despair. Each new restriction is a chain around the spirit; each forbidden morsel, a spark of rebellion. The result is not liberation, but bondage — the endless cycle of loss and regain, hope and disappointment. Thus, in the truest sense, dieting makes one heavier, not only in body, but in heart.

Yet the wise know that harmony is not born of punishment. The ancients taught that balance, not extremity, is the path of health. The philosopher Epicurus, often misunderstood as a man of indulgence, taught that true pleasure lies in the absence of pain — in simplicity, gratitude, and understanding one’s nature. He ate bread and olives, not from denial, but from contentment. He found joy in sufficiency, peace in moderation, and wholeness in self-acceptance. The modern soul, if it heeds Weir’s warning, must likewise seek to heal its relationship with hunger, not by suppression, but by listening.

The lesson, therefore, is profound: to make peace with the body is to make peace with the self. The one who loves his own form, who feeds it with care and honors its rhythms, will find a strength that no diet can give. To live in fear of food is to live in exile from joy; to live in balance is to be at home within one’s skin. The body does not need punishment — it needs patience, trust, and kindness.

Let us then take from Weir’s words a practical wisdom:

1. Reject extremes, for they promise freedom but deliver chains.

2. Eat with awareness, honoring hunger as a natural voice, not an enemy.

3. Seek balance, not perfection — for perfection is a mirage that vanishes as we approach.

4. Forgive yourself, for guilt feeds the very cycle it claims to cure.

Thus, O listener, remember this truth: the body is not your adversary, but your oldest companion. Treat it as you would an ancient friend — with gentleness, respect, and understanding. And perhaps then, you shall find what Arabella Weir longed for all along — not the hollow victory of thinness, but the enduring strength of peace within the flesh.