Every summer, the same problem shows up.

You keep revisiting it. Three, maybe four times a year.
You know the dates. New Year. Your birthday. A death.
A fresh start is forced upon you.

Kids. Work. Energy. Time. Happiness.
Meaning the visits get shorter and further apart.
Which means whatever you try on the next one needs to be quicker.
You need results in four weeks, not 6, because that’s all you’ve got.

And it will work. You’ll lose something. Feel better. Briefly.

Then it stops.
And before you know it, you’re back.
Not back where you were.
One step forward these days means four steps back.
You’re running out of room.

Older.
Carrying more weight, more stress, more anguish from past failures.
And now it’s not just inconvenient. Everything hurts.
Your knees. Your back. Your shoulders.

Every year, you hate yourself and the problem a little more.

The evening snacking, the takeaway, the social occasion.
Your releases have stopped releasing.

The crutch has been booted out from under you. Snapped in two and shoved up your arse for good measure.

Exercise you can stomach. A diet you can stick to. A hobby you need to make time for. You know they’re all good ideas. You’ve always known.
You haven’t (won’t) found anything worth stomaching.
So the resentment builds. Visit by visit.

Now you’ve got only 12 days to overhaul everything.
This time though, it will be different.
You already know it won’t.

You either accept it will take so much longer to tame than you can bear.
Or the misery you take from each visit will keep growing.
The gaps grow wider. Infrequent. Forgotten.

Until you eventually stop visiting altogether.
That decision remains yours.
For now.