On Fasting

Interior Mortification, Part II

This is not advice. This is just a story. Given the industry I was in, I know how quietly destructive restriction can be.

I’ve mostly had a healthy relationship with food, minus the years I did Miami Swim Week. It’s been five years since my feet touched a runway. I’m glad that I’m the kind of person that tries a bunch of things and I’m glad that I’m the kind of person that walks away from a bunch of things.

This has been sitting in my drafts because I felt weird about how you’d feel about it. The feeling passed. I’m quite pleased with me lately. Everything seems to be falling into place.

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Since my last post, I’ve taken things up a notch. Athlete mode. Division I. That’s what I told my boyfriend during our annual meeting.

And while we can write down, announce, and proclaim who we want to be, we’re still who we are. So when Marcello came home and told me that Warren’s brother cured his mold symptoms with a three day water fast I said that’s bullshit.

That night, I prepared for my first fast.

I was already in it when I told my chat (yes I use AI for my health anxiety, unfollow me sue me bite me I don’t care) about my plans to go 72 hours without eating. I didn’t tell it that I secretly wanted to BEAT Warren’s brother and go longer than that. This was its response:

Got it. Let’s get concrete and grounded for a second. A 72-hour fast is intense, especially given your recent health stress, meds, sensitive stomach, and nervous system load.

To which I replied I am feeling good. I am open to not being so strict i just want to give my body a chance to see how it feels since ive never done anything like this before. I just scheduled a lymphatic face massage sunday at 12:30 which helped so much on dec 28 with my sinus when i did it. I am open to breaking fast after? or even before. what do you suggest

And so we created a plan: A modified intentional physiological pause.

“A fault this body has is that the more comfort we try to give it the more needs it discovers.”

—St. Teresa of Ávila, The Way of Perfection, Chapter 11

I reference her often because of a string of synchronicities that followed me to Brooklyn two years ago and continue to unfold. A Spanish mystic and writer, she dealt with chronic illness, intimately familiar with the body as both vessel and burden. Favorite color orange. Founded 13 monasteries. I have 13 tattooed on my arm. I gave birth on the 13th. I digress. She was an Aries.

My plan to not complain about what I’m about to do is to not tell anyone and to stay as far away from my family as possible during:

January 9th (Day 1)

My last meal was last night around 6pm. Filet mignon, grilled peppers, endive salad. Today I had a green juice and some black coffee. Just a few sips. Easing into this.

Mel is on her way to the hospital, to deliver her second child, first son, and I am so excited. I won’t sleep until he’s born and she’s okay.

Mateo is on my lap as the wind roars through his bedroom window. In one week we will wake up in Miami. I try to memorize every inch of my four year old’s bedroom. The one he never sleeps in. We are surrounded by his stuffies while we have a cuddle party. I am so devoted to him I can never get anything done. I’ve been thinking lately that I don’t want another child.

I am trying to search for fasting in the index of The Way of Perfection but I am also in a rocket ship in space making wishes on shooting stars. Mateo wishes for Raichu the evolution of Pikachu.

I was deeply disturbed by my dreams last night. Something horrific that happened somewhere between Dadeland and the palmetto. The giant red snakes on miller.

By 10:30am I am starving. Marcello makes arepas and I lock myself in our room trying not to smell them.

I wouldn’t be able to do this without him. He hired two women to come clean the house and cook for us so that I wouldn’t have to cook food I can’t eat.

At 1pm, my energy surged. I placed a $150 Brandy Melville order at 1:09pm and three minutes later booked a lymphatic facial for Sunday. The food I didn’t cook smells so good I light a candle to smell something else.

At 2:30pm I started creating calendar invites for our upcoming trip and sending them to Marcello, some to Sara. I look up the menus of the places I want to try and then realize that’s a terrible idea so I stop.

It’s 4 now, I’m doing laundry and my lab results came back. I’m not sure what anything means but my cholesterol is excellent. It just gets better and better. After I had Mateo it was through the roof and my doctor wanted me on medication as soon as I stopped breastfeeding. I’m grateful I listened to myself and not to him. I love my doctors but they’re not always right. Not even close.

My head is starting to to feel a little weird and I’m cold. The first day is the hardest, they say.

January 10th (Day 2)

I woke up enraged. The cats scratched one of my favorite dresses. I watched My Oxford Year followed by one episode of Sex and the City and then People We Meet on Vacation.

It’s noon and I’m crying because chat thinks it’s time to quit break.

“At ~42 hours, breaking is completion, not quitting.”

And yeah I didn’t sleep but neither did my best friend and I don’t think Warren’s brother broke 42 hours in. The plan was SIXTY hours. My plan was seventy two. Seventy three to beat Warren’s brother. I don’t even know Warren’s brother. I didn’t even want to do this.

I had a little coffee, I’m feeling better. I would love to make it to 48 hours.

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I prepared the broth at two. I made it to 44 hours. It’s fine because I like numbers and forty four is beautiful.

And at some point between breaking down and breaking the fast, a perfect baby boy was born and Mel is okay. That’s all that really matters. Maybe I do want to do it again (a baby, not the fast), one day. Not soon.

Tonight I will say a little prayer that we all sleep good. I’m done suffering for the year, life’s too good.