We live in a world that moves at lightning speed; a world where dopamine is the new currency and patience is the forgotten art. Our phones buzz, our feeds scroll endlessly, and our meals arrive faster than our thoughts can catch up. In this environment, instant gratification isn’t just a habit; it’s a way of life.
We know what to do — we’ve read the books, listened to the
podcasts, and followed the “discipline” influencers. Yet, when it’s time for
action, we hesitate. We overthink. We delay. We plan and re-plan. We’ve become
skilled at talking about growth, but we're often clueless about living it.
The real crisis isn’t ignorance, it’s disconnection. The gap
between what we know and what we do has grown into a chasm. And the only way to
cross that chasm is through integrity; that rare alignment between what we
feel, think, and act.
But how do you create that alignment in a world that offers
shortcuts for every discomfort?
For me, the answer came wrapped in hunger.
Fasting: The Forgotten School of Integrity
Let’s be clear, fasting isn’t about skipping meals or
showing off spiritual discipline. It’s about reclaiming control over your
cravings — those whispers of unmet emotional needs that drive you toward sugar,
screens, and shallow comforts.
You see, cravings aren’t random. They’re coded messages from
your inner self — signals saying, “I need comfort,” “I need connection,” “I
need calm.” But i
nstead of listening, we often numb them with quick fixes.
We scroll for validation. We snack for safety. We buy for belonging.
When I started exploring fasting, I wasn’t chasing a diet or
trend. I wanted to confront my cravings and understand what was driving my
impulses. So, I decided to go all in — a five-day, 120-hour water fast.
By the fourth day, my body protested loudly. My brain
screamed, “Edwin, you’re mad!” Every step felt heavy. Yet I pushed myself
through a 7km walk — one of the most physically and mentally exhausting acts of
self-honesty I’ve ever attempted.
When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror, shaky but
clear-eyed—no sugar, no caffeine, no mask — just me. I realized fasting had
stripped away not only physical comfort but also illusions. It forced me
to see my relationship with desire — how often I turned outward to avoid
looking inward.
That day, I learned this truth:
Fasting doesn’t starve the body — it feeds the soul’s
awareness.
The Weekly Discipline: 48 and 60 Hours of War
After that, I started fasting weekly — beginning with 48
hours and then gradually increasing to 60 hours. I didn’t avoid life during the
process; I maintained my usual routine — gym, client meetings, writing,
coaching.
At first, my mind pushed back. It argued, justified itself, and
even mocked me.
“You’ve done enough, Edwin.”
“Just one bite won’t hurt.”
“Come on, this is too extreme.”
But each time I resisted, something powerful occurred. My
resolve to myself grew firmer. I was no longer at the mercy of my impulses.
The more I fasted, the more I started to see life from a
different perspective. I realized how much our social connections are centered
around dopamine — we meet friends over food, and we celebrate through
indulgence. But when you sit across from others and you’re the only one not
eating, you face yourself. You ask deeper questions.
“Am I present without a plate?”
“Who am I without the next bite?”
Fasting turned out to be less about abstaining and more
about awakening. It revealed how often I’d used food to soothe loneliness or
anxiety. Without that buffer, I had to create new comforting rituals — such as journaling,
affirmations, deep breathing, and meditation. I learned to reparent
myself — to give the inner child comfort, not candy; care, not coping.
The Science of Integrity: Rewiring the Reward System
What fasting truly trains is your neuroplasticity —
the brain’s ability to rewire itself through new experiences. Every time you
face a craving and choose stillness over stimulus, you forge new neural links
between your thinking brain (prefrontal cortex) and your feeling
brain (limbic system).
Instant gratification bypasses logic and caters to emotion.
Fasting reverses that — it reactivates the bridge. Suddenly, emotion doesn’t
drag you along; it asks for guidance. You stop reacting. You start reflecting.
This is why fasting isn’t just about health; it’s about mental
discipline. You are training your nervous system to handle discomfort
without giving in. You are rewiring your mind to wait — to think first before
acting.
That’s what I call self-integrity — when your
actions genuinely align with your intentions.
The Gift Hidden in Hunger
Hunger, I’ve realized, is truthful. It removes pretense.
When the stomach growls, the ego dims. When the body is empty, the mind becomes
sharper.
During one of my longer fasts, I noticed how silence began
to taste sweeter than any snack. I started feeling emotions more clearly —
sadness, joy, longing — and instead of drowning them, I let them breathe.
Hunger taught me presence. It showed me that I didn’t need to escape to
find peace. I only needed to stay.
Through fasting, I stopped relying on external comfort. I
learned that calmness could come from within — from a quiet breath, a word of
affirmation, or a gentle acknowledgment of pain.
And through that honesty, I found a deeper sense of freedom.
The ability to choose myself, not my craving.
The Call: Reclaim Your Inner Authority
We live in a world that benefits from your lack of control.
Every click, snack, and swipe is created to keep you reacting instead of
reflecting. But fasting breaks that cycle. It forces a pause — and in that
moment, you discover your truest self.
So, here’s my challenge: Start small. Try 12 hours,
then 24. Sit with the discomfort. Don’t escape — listen. What is your body
trying to say? What need hides beneath the hunger?
Fasting isn’t punishment — it’s practice. It’s your way of
telling the mind, "You don’t get to run the show alone."
Every quick decision, no matter how brief, becomes a
rehearsal for bigger choices — the courage to delay gratification, to choose
integrity over impulse, and to live from purpose rather than pressure.
And once you finally build that bridge — between your
thoughts, emotions, and actions — you won’t just live wiser. You’ll live whole.
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