Touring had trained her badly. Late-night diners after shows. Gas station sandwiches at midnight. Hotel loneliness disguised as dessert. Years earlier the body absorbed these decisions with cheerful youth. Now every habit accumulated around her slowly, snow against a parked car. Each morning, fresh vows of discipline. No bread at night. More walking. Less disputes with pastries. By afternoon she genuinely believed she transformed. Then evening. A concert. Adrenaline. Applause. The long decompression where the body, overstimulated and tired, demanded reward. One cookie became five.

The hardest part was not the weight but the divided mind. One part sincerely wanted health, restraint, longevity. Another part spoke in negotiations. You deserve this. Tomorrow will be different. One night doesn’t matter. She began realizing the argument resembled all the other inner conflicts of her life, the same strange split consciousness that had once told her she was both a genius and a fraud, both admired and invisible. She started suspecting the overeating was not hunger exactly but a temporary anesthesia against being alive inside an aging body moving toward disappearance.

One night after a show in Halifax she stood alone in a hotel room eating dry cereal from a paper cup. Suddenly the whole thing looked absurdly clear. There was no evil force attacking her. No villain. Just habits, exhaustion, loneliness, reward circuitry, fear, comfort, memory. She laughed, not because the problem vanished, but she saw how relentlessly dramatic she made struggle. Next morning she still wanted too much. Still argued internally. But something shifted. She was simply human, frightened of limits, trying to comfort herself before the lights went out.