For the past two years, my morning routine was like something out of a bad teen movie. I’d wake up, change into my gym clothes, have some hot water with lemon, and stand in front of the full-length mirror in my hallway to scrutinise myself. I’d turn to the side and consider how much my lower belly poked out, and whether or not it was bigger or smaller than it was the day before. I’d roll my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and try to stand a little taller to see if a posture tweak might smooth me out a little more. Then I’d sigh, resigned, and drag myself to the gym. On bad days, I’d just say “screw it,” and get back into bed, dreading the moment when I’d have to wake up and put on clothes.