The weight loss was the bonus. The quiet mind was the gift.
“Lost 35 pounds in 30 days.”
“Carnivore melted my belly fat.”
“This diet changed my body forever.”
Scroll through social media for five minutes and you’d think carnivore exists for one reason only: To fit into smaller jeans. Apparently, that’s the dream. I think we’re selling carnivore completely wrong. Don’t get me wrong. If you lose weight eating this way, wonderful. It happened to me too. Somewhere along the way, I quietly lost the last few kilos I’d been carrying since having my kids. I can wear the same belt I wore when I was eighteen. Which is nice. Very nice, actually. I’m 43. I’ll take the win.
But if that were all carnivore had given me, I probably wouldn’t still be sitting here, three years later, writing about steak on the internet. Because the biggest transformation didn’t happen around my waist. It happened between my ears. And that is the part I think we’re not talking about nearly enough. What if we’re promoting the wrong benefit?
People always want to know:
“How much weight did you lose?”
Almost nobody asks:
“Is your mind quieter?”
“How is your energy?”
“Do you still think about food all day?”
“Do you still have those afternoon crashes?”
“Do you feel emotionally stable?”
Or simply:
“Do you feel better?”
Those are the questions I’m interested in. Because before carnivore, my body and brain seemed to be in a permanent negotiation with each other. Hungry? Not hungry. Something sweet? Maybe just one. Tired after lunch. Thinking about food. Thinking about eating healthier. Eating something I hadn’t planned. Feeling guilty about eating the thing I hadn’t planned. Thinking about what I would eat tomorrow to compensate for the thing I ate today. Jesus. It’s exhausting just writing it.Now? Silence.
And if you’ve read anything I’ve written lately, you’ll know that silence has become my favorite feeling.
My relationship with food became incredibly simple. I eat. I’m satisfied. And then I get on with my life.
No constant negotiations. No mental gymnastics. No food taking up half the available storage space in my brain. And I had absolutely no idea how much mental space all of that was taking up…
until it disappeared. Although apparently I haven’t gone blind. Here’s the funny part.
I still think some food looks absolutely delicious. Of course I do. I’m carnivore. I haven’t gone blind.
Recently, there were all kinds of cakes and treats at the office. And there was one particular little cake that looked really good. I didn’t feel like I desperately needed to eat it. There wasn’t some uncontrollable craving taking over my body. But I did want to know what it looked like inside. So naturally, instead of eating the cake like a normal person… I asked my colleague to eat it for me.
Well. Sort of.
I specifically asked her to take a bite so I could see the inside. And then I stood there watching her eat it. From a perfectly reasonable distance, obviously. We all started laughing because once you actually looked at the situation… it was completely ridiculous. There she was. Eating cake. And there I was watching her like some sort of dessert voyeur. “Oooh… what’s inside?” “Is that cream?” “Is it soft?”
Basically OnlyFans. But for pastry.
And you know what?
I genuinely enjoyed it. For a moment I even thought: God, I’d quite like that. Because it looked delicious. But there was no battle. No little voice screaming: EAT THE CAKE. No heroic display of willpower required. No feeling that I was depriving myself of something. I watched her eat it. We laughed. And then I moved on with my day. It sounds completely insignificant. But that stupid little cake made me realise something. Wanting something and needing something are two very different things. I can look at cake and think it looks amazing. I can smell fresh bread and completely understand why humanity has spent thousands of years perfecting it. I can see something beautiful on someone else’s plate and think: Yep. I’d eat that. But I don’t have to. And more importantly… I don’t spend the next three hours thinking about it. Food can just be food again. It doesn’t have to win. And neither do I. That, to me, is freedom. You can’t photograph a quiet mind. The physical changes are easy to show. Take a photograph. Stand sideways. Pull your jeans up. Find good lighting. Add some dramatic music. BEFORE. AFTER. Done.
Mental change isn’t quite as Instagram-friendly. How do you photograph waking up and feeling calm?
How do you photograph not thinking about food? How do you show someone what steady energy feels like? How do you put “my brain finally shut the hell up” into a before-and-after picture?
You can’t. But you sure as hell know when it happens. For me, my mind became quieter.
My energy became steadier. The constant highs and lows I once considered completely normal became far less prominent. And that freedom is worth infinitely more to me than any number on a scale. And then there’s being a woman over 40.
Perimenopause.
Menopause.
Hormones.
Pick your favorite word for the party nobody remembers RSVP’ing to.
Every week, I see another twenty-something influencer explaining what women in their forties and fifties should be doing with their hormones. No offence, but… Maybe occasionally let the women actually living through it have the microphone. Because when you’re over forty, you quickly realise health isn’t just about looking good in leggings. You want to sleep. You want energy. You want your brain. You want emotional stability. You want to wake up in the morning and recognise the woman living inside your own body. And for me, the way I eat has become an enormous part of that. Now, before somebody screenshots that sentence and tells the internet Laura believes ribeye is psychiatric medication… No. Calm down. I’m not saying steak cures anxiety. I’m not saying carnivore cures depression. I’m not saying it heals trauma, fixes menopause, saves your marriage or makes your annoying colleague disappear. Although that last one would make an excellent clinical trial.
I’m saying something much simpler. The mental changes I have personally experienced eating this way have been far more valuable to me than the physical ones. And I think that deserves a much bigger conversation. Maybe even a bigger conversation than weight loss. Because here’s the irony. When carnivore is marketed primarily as rapid weight loss, I think we actually make it look less credible. Someone sees: LOSE 16 KILOS IN FOUR WEEKS! So they try carnivore. Four weeks later they’ve lost three kilos. “Well. That didn’t work.” But wait. Did you sleep better? Did you stop thinking about snacks every two hours? Did your digestion settle down? Did that three o’clock crash disappear? Are you calmer? Do you wake up with more energy? Are you thinking more clearly?
Did you stop fighting with food? Do you feel more like yourself? Because if the answer to half of those questions is yes… Did carnivore really fail? Or were we simply measuring the wrong thing? Maybe we need before-and-after minds. That’s what I wish we’d talk about more. Not because weight doesn’t matter. Of course it can matter. Carrying excess weight can affect health, confidence, mobility and how someone feels inside their own body. But being smaller and being healthier aren’t automatically the same achievement. And perhaps health deserves measurements that don’t fit neatly on a bathroom scale. How do you measure mental freedom? How do you measure waking up happy? How do you measure having enough energy left at the end of the day to actually enjoy your family? How do you measure not being at war with yourself anymore? Those changes aren’t as sexy on Instagram. There’s no measuring tape. No bikini transformation. No sad piano music followed by aggressive gym music.
No:
DAY ONE vs DAY THIRTY.
It’s just you…living your life…and one day realising: Bloody hell. I feel good. That’s why I’m still carnivore. Carnivore isn’t magic. It isn’t for everyone. And it certainly shouldn’t become your entire personality. Although considering I literally created something called High Heels & Ribeyes, I’m probably not in the strongest position to make that argument. But still. For me, carnivore became much bigger than a way to control my weight. It changed my relationship with food. It changed how I experience hunger. It changed my energy. And most importantly… it changed how I feel inside my own head. That’s why I’m still here. Not because my jeans got smaller. Not because I can wear my eighteen-year-old belt again. Not because a scale gave me permission to feel successful.
Those things are nice. They’re just not the story. The weight loss was the bonus.
The quiet mind was the gift.
And maybe instead of always asking carnivores:
“How much weight did you lose?”
we should start asking:
“How much of yourself did you get back?”
Because maybe we’ve been measuring success completely wrong. Maybe the greatest transformation isn’t the body everyone else can see. Maybe it’s finally feeling at home inside the one you already have. And if that doesn’t fit into a thirty-second transformation reel? Fine. I’ll be over here watching my colleague eat cake.
Laura
High Heels & Ribeyes
The Woman Behind the Jersey 