It started like most modern transformations: a viral documentary, a late‑night Google spiral, and a moral high that felt downright incandescent. Within a week I’d donated the leather belt, deep‑cleaned my pantry, and congratulated myself for joining a growing global movement.
But six months later I was standing in a Saigon convenience store at 9 p.m., light‑headed, scanning an ingredients list with twelve syllables I couldn’t pronounce. My wife—pregnant, tired, and craving something salty—watched me melt down because the seaweed snacks were seasoned with trace shrimp powder. That’s when I realised the diet that was supposed to make me lighter was weighing on everyone around me—including our unborn child.
Funnily enough, my experience isn’t unique. Researchers are finding that the rigid food rules many vegans (and vegetarians) adopt can overlap with a clinical obsession called orthorexia—an unhealthy fixation on “perfect” eating that’s tightly bound to perfectionism. I was ticking every box.
Here’s how I clawed my way out—by dropping four rules that had nothing to do with plants and everything to do with my ego.
Rule 1: Absolute purity or bust
My first commandment was zero tolerance: if a dish might have brushed against butter five kitchens ago, it was off‑limits. The problem? Life isn’t an autoclave, and neither is Vietnamese street food. The more I chased microscopic purity, the smaller my world became—and the more panic surged whenever I couldn’t control every grain of rice.
Clinical dietitians now flag this “no grey areas” mindset as a hallmark of orthorexic tendencies. It pushes people toward social withdrawal and nutritional gaps rather than genuine health.
Letting go meant adopting what Buddhists call the middle way—honouring my values without turning them into a dogma. If a friend’s homemade curry contained a teaspoon of fish sauce, I chose gratitude over guilt.
How it changed everything: My social life rebounded, and surprise—so did my micronutrient intake. Occasional flexibility kept me in restaurants long enough to eat a balanced plate instead of another lonely salad at home.
Rule 2: Every meal must meet 100 percent of today’s nutrient targets
I once tracked amino‑acid scores the way day traders track candlesticks. If lunch didn’t hit theoretical lysine requirements, I’d spiral into late‑night protein shakes. Yet meta‑analyses show that overall pattern beats daily perfection; people who follow balanced plant‑leaning diets (vegan, vegetarian, or flexitarian) enjoy robust cardiovascular and metabolic health despite plenty of imperfect dinners.
When I replaced “hit the numbers” with “eat the rainbow this week,” cooking became playful again. I still monitor B12, iron, and omega‑3s—but through periodic blood tests and sensible supplementation, not obsessive spreadsheets.
How it changed everything: My meals went from beige tofu monotony to bowls bursting with colour. I started tasting food again instead of analysing it.
Rule 3: Vegan is my entire identity (and moral scoreboard)
At some point I’d conflated compassion for animals with self‑righteous performance art. Online, I blasted chefs who used honey; offline, I kept quiet when my energy flagged because I didn’t want to taint “the movement.” Psychologists warn that when a dietary label becomes a source of self‑worth, any slip feels like moral collapse, amplifying anxiety and depression.
Dropping this rule meant expanding my identity beyond “perfect herbivore” to “human who tries to reduce harm.” I still choose plant‑based 95 percent of the time, but I no longer measure friends—or myself—by dinner plates. The result? Deeper conversations and a sudden absence of that tight knot in my chest during family gatherings.
How it changed everything: I built bridges instead of keeping score. My dad, previously skeptical, now does meatless Mondays because I stopped shaming him and started sharing recipes.
Rule 4: One slip destroys the streak
Perfectionism’s favourite lie is “all or nothing.” Miss one workout; you’re a couch potato. Accidentally bite a pastry with butter; you’re a fraud. A 2024 meta‑analysis on eating disorders found that low self‑compassion and high self‑criticism fuel relapse cycles exactly like the ones I rode for months.
My antidote came from metta meditation: treating mistakes the way I’d treat a friend’s—gently. When I wolfed down an egg‑noodle dish on a 120‑kilometre bike ride, I chose reflection over self‑flagellation: Was my body asking for calories more loudly than my ideals? How can I plan better snacks next time? And then I let it go.
How it changed everything: Energy that once burned in rumination flowed into morning runs, writing, and, crucially, being present for my wife’s pregnancy appointments.
What freed energy actually feels like
Since loosening my white‑knuckled grip on these four rules, the results have been embarrassingly positive:
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Physical vitality. My blood work stabilised once caloric intake matched my training load—no surprise given that extreme restriction can sabotage thyroid and sex hormones.
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Mental clarity. Mood swings receded. Research shows varied, nutrient‑dense eating patterns support brain‑health markers and psychological well‑being better than narrowly restrictive ones eatingwell.com.
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Relationships. Meals became moments of connection again. When my Vietnamese in‑laws served bánh xèo cooked on the same pan as pork slices, I thanked them and ate around the meat rather than rejecting the dish—and the gesture.
The middle way, one plate at a time
I’m still vegan—just not a fundamentalist. The Buddha taught non‑attachment not to values, but to the ego that co‑opts them. By loosening my grip, I ironically live my principles more sustainably: lower carbon footprint, compassionate choices, and a spirit that’s actually kind.
If you recognise the twitchy vigilance I’ve described, audit your own unwritten rules. Ask: Do these guidelines serve life—or choke it? Swap absolutism for curiosity. Trade the podium of moral certainty for a practice of humble exploration.
Because the real revolution isn’t a flawless label. It’s a daily act of mindful eating that nourishes you and the planet—no panic required.
