the vegetarian middle path: after years of being vegan
tw: discussion of diet, health, body image
the first time i ate cheese after ten years of being vegan, i cried.
not because i felt guilty—though that came later, in waves. i cried because my body responded with something i can only describe as relief. a deep, cellular thank-you that i'd spent a decade trying not to hear.
it was autumn 2023 in gothenburg. i'd just finished a half-marathon training run, the kind that leaves your legs trembling and your mind too tired to negotiate with itself. my friend sara brought fresh bread and local cheese to our post-run coffee. she didn't know i was vegan—we'd only recently become close—and i didn't correct her.
and something in me... settled.
when ideology met the body
i became vegan in 2013. the documentary. the statistics. the images i couldn't unsee. for years, it felt right. i felt lighter, clearer, aligned with something bigger than my own hunger.
my yoga practice deepened. i studied ahimsa—non-harming—and veganism felt like its purest expression. how could i speak of compassion on the mat while participating in suffering off it?
but around 2021, something shifted.
i was training harder. running longer. practicing yoga six days a week. my energy started to feel... fragile. not the good kind of emptiness after meditation, this was depletion.
my hair thinned.
my period became irregular.
blood tests showed deficiencies that supplements couldn't fix.
my doctor looked at my labs and said gently: "your values are beautiful. but your body is asking for something different."
i didn't want to hear it.
the questions i couldn't ask
for months, i tried everything. more protein powders. different supplements. obsessive meal planning. i read blogs by vegan athletes, convinced that if they could thrive, so could i.
and maybe they could, their bodies are not mine.
during savasana, i would lie still and feel my heartbeat—fast, fluttery, anxious even in rest. my teacher in rishikesh used to say: "the body whispers before it shouts."
mine had been whispering for a while.
the truth is, i was afraid. afraid of judgment from the vegan community i'd been part of for a decade. afraid of hypocrisy. afraid that adding dairy and eggs back would mean i'd failed at something i'd built my identity around.
but there was another fear underneath:
what if my body actually needed this?
an egg from sara's neighbor's chickens. hens i could see scratching in the garden outside gothenburg. then yogurt from a local farm where the cows had names and pasture and what looked like... a decent life.
each time, i waited for the guilt to crush me.
instead, i felt steadier.
the fragility in my energy began to fill in, like watercolor soaking into paper.
my runs felt different. not faster necessarily but more sustainable. i wasn't hitting that wall at kilometer fifteen anymore. my teacher sara noticed: "you seem more present lately."
because i wasn't spending all my energy managing deficiency.
here's what veganism taught me: to pay attention. to question convenience. to see the beings behind my food.
those lessons didn't disappear when i added eggs and cheese back.
but vegetarianism is teaching me something veganism couldn't: that compassion includes my own body. that ahimsa—non-harming—applies to the woman in the mirror too.
for years, i'd practiced a kind of violence toward myself. not intentionally, i genuinely believed i was doing the right thing. but insisting my body adapt to my ideology, rather than listening to what it needed? that was a form of harm.
in yoga philosophy, there's a concept called svadhyaya—self-study. it asks us to observe ourselves with honesty, not with the answer we want to find.
when i finally practiced real svadhyaya around food, i had to admit: my body was asking for something i'd been refusing to hear.
this doesn't mean veganism is wrong. for many people, it's deeply nourishing—physically, ethically, spiritually.
but for me, at this point in my life, with my body's particular needs and my athletic practice, vegetarianism is the middle path.
the place where my values and my vitality can coexist.
what balance looks like now
these days, my diet is mostly plant-based.
i still eat the lentil soups and vegetable curries and whole grain bowls i loved as a vegan. but i've added back eggs, cheese, and yogurt—always from local sources where i can trace the origin.
i don't eat these foods carelessly. each egg still carries weight, still asks me to be conscious. but that consciousness now includes gratitude toward my own body, not just concern for others.
before a long run:
greek yogurt with honey and walnuts. in summer, lingonberries from swedish forests. in winter, frozen blueberries that taste like memory.
after yoga:
spanish tortilla—eggs, potatoes, olive oil, salt. eaten warm with a simple salad. my abuela's version had onions, mine doesn't, but the spirit is the same.
weeknight comfort:
lentil stew with carrots, celery, cumin, and a soft-boiled egg on top. bread with good butter. sometimes sara joins me and we eat slowly.
recovery bowl:
quinoa, roasted vegetables, tahini dressing, and feta from a local farm where the goats have more pasture than the farmers do.
these aren't instagram-perfect meals. they're sustenance, ritual, and self-respect combined into something simple enough to make on a tuesday.
on my kitchen wall, there's a note sara gave me: "compassion that excludes yourself isn't complete."
i read it most mornings, while the coffee brews and luna winds around my ankles.
the practice of non-judgment
the hardest part hasn't been the dietary change.
it's been navigating other people's reactions—and my own internalized judgments.
some of my vegan friends felt betrayed. i understand, i used to think the same way. some asked if i'd "given up." those questions stung because part of me wondered if they were right.
but then i remember what my teacher devendra said in rishikesh: "the practice is not about rules, it's about awareness. can you eat and remain awake? can you make choices from consciousness rather than habit or fear?"
i'm trying to eat from consciousness now.
that means being honest about my body's needs even when they don't match my ideology. it means supporting farms and food systems i believe in. it means respecting that everyone's path with food is different—and that includes my own.
when someone tells me they're vegan, i don't try to convince them otherwise.
when someone asks why i'm not vegan anymore, i don't defend unless they're genuinely curious.
this isn't about being right.
i still don't know if i made the "right" choice.
some days i wonder if i should have tried harder to stay vegan. other days i know, deeply, that this was the only honest path forward.
my body is wiser than my ideology.
learning to listen to it—really listen, not just hear what i want to hear—has been one of the most difficult practices of my life. more challenging than any yoga pose or long-distance run.
the middle path isn't compromise.
it's holding two truths at once: that i care deeply about animal welfare AND that i also have a body with specific needs. that compassion extends outward and inward at the same time. that the most ethical choice might be the one that keeps me healthy enough to show up—for my practice, for my work, for the people i love.
some mornings, when i tie my running shoes and the city is still quiet, i whisper the same intention i learned in india:
lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu—may all beings be happy and free.
and now, finally, i include myself in that prayer.
the vegetarian middle path isn't the loudest path. it doesn't fit neatly into categories or manifestos.
but it's the one where i can breathe.
where my body and my values walk side by side instead of at war.
and for now, that's enough.
have you ever had to adjust something you believed deeply in because your body asked for something different? i'd love to hear your experience if you're comfortable sharing.
