There’s a version of “discipline” that gets praised — in sport, in wellness culture, and increasingly in everyday life. It looks controlled, consistent, and intentional. It’s the person who eats the same meals on repeat, who avoids “unnecessary” foods, who doesn’t feel swayed by cravings or social situations. EVER.

From the outside, it looks like success. But is there a point where that discipline stops being helpful? When it starts becoming something else entirely?

Whether you’re an athlete or not, total rigidity around food can be a red flag.

I write this as a bodybuilder, so I would be a hypocrite if I denied that extreme structure doesn’t have a place in certain phases within sports (for example - a bodybuilding prep, which is inherently extreme). But we need to acknowledge that these phases should be time-limited, and balanced with phases of flexibility (e.g., in a bodybuilders “off-season”).

This doesn’t just apply to athletes.

Maybe you’ve been here yourself.

You go out for dinner and, despite a menu full of options, you choose the “safest”, plainest thing. Not because that’s what you truly want — but because anything else feels uncomfortable.

Or you go on holiday and stick to the same familiar foods, avoiding local dishes, new experiences, anything that feels uncertain.

Or — and this is where it often gets missed — you simply… don’t feel that interested in food anymore.

You say things like:

“I’m just not that hungry.”

“I don’t really think about food.”

“I eat because I have to, not because I enjoy it.”

And on the surface, that can sound neutral. Even positive.

But often, it’s not the full story.

Over time, something subtle happens when eating becomes overly controlled.

You start to disconnect from your internal signals — hunger, appetite, cravings, enjoyment. Not because they’ve disappeared, but because they’ve been consistently overridden.

Hunger becomes something to ignore.

Cravings become something to suppress.

Enjoyment becomes something to question.

And eventually, the narrative shifts.

“I’m not hungry” replaces “I’m ignoring hunger.”

“I don’t enjoy food” replaces “I don’t allow myself to.”

Because physiologically, most people don’t just lose their appetite or enjoyment of food without a reason. Appetite is tightly regulated by the body. Pleasure from food is part of human biology — it’s how we survive.

What’s more likely is that the body has adapted.

Chronic under-eating can blunt hunger signals. Stress can suppress appetite. Repetitive, low-variety diets can reduce food interest. And psychologically, if you repeatedly deny yourself certain foods or experiences, your brain learns to stop expecting them.

It’s not that the desire for food is gone. It’s that it’s been quietened — or overridden — for long enough that it feels that way.

In sport, this often gets labelled as discipline.

In the general population, it gets labelled as “being healthy”, “having good habits”, or “just not being that into food”.

But in both cases, it can reflect the same underlying pattern - rigidity.

We call this rigid style of eating ‘orthorexia nervosa’ — an obsessive focus on eating in a way that feels “correct”, “clean”, or “optimal”.

It’s not currently a formally diagnosed eating disorder, but it’s well documented. Research shows that people who exercise regularly — particularly athletes — have a higher prevalence of orthorexic tendencies, driven by perfectionism, performance pressure, and structured routines.

But importantly, it’s not limited to sport.

In non-athletes, it often shows up more quietly:

• Avoiding foods or food groups without medical need.

• Feeling anxious eating food prepared by others.

• Sticking to the same “safe” meals daily.

• Losing interest in food variety or social eating.

• Undereating, but framing it as “just not being hungry.”

For many people, this way of eating becomes part of their identity.

The ‘low maintenance’ food one.

The “good” one who “doesn’t get these cravings”.

The one who “can take or leave eating”.

Or in sport it’s generally labelled as the “disciplined” or “focussed” one who never deviates from the plan.

Identity can be hard to challenge. Because eating differently doesn’t just feel like a change in behaviour — it feels uncomfortable, unfamiliar, even threatening. Not necessarily because something bad will happen, but because it disrupts a sense of control.

It’s not a structure problem – structure can be helpful in supporting performance, energy, and routine. The problem is when flexibility feels impossible. When eating outside of your usual pattern creates anxiety. When you avoid situations rather than adapt to them. When your world subtly shrinks — fewer meals out, fewer shared experiences, less spontaneity.

That’s not discipline. That’s a relationship with food that’s limiting you.

Food is fuel, yes. But it’s also pleasure, culture, connection, and memory.

It’s trying something new on holiday.

It’s sharing meals with other people.

It’s enjoying food without overthinking it.

And when those parts start to disappear — even if everything looks “fine” on the surface — it’s worth paying attention.

If you recognise any of this in yourself, worth asking yourself:

Do I feel free around food?

Can I eat differently when I need to?

Do I actually enjoy what I’m eating — or have I just learned to say that I do?

Maybe it’s time to really start to listen to your body’s needs again and learn to retune into your appetite.