I don’t know if this counts as a confession, really. It’s not like I’ve done anything truly awful, not like some of the things people write here. But it feels… secret. And a bit shameful, I guess. I’m a personal trainer. Been doing it for, well, longer than I care to admit. I’m getting to that age where you start thinking about what you’ve left behind, what you wanted to do with your life versus what you actually did. I always wanted to be an artist, you know? Painted a lot when I was younger. But bills, always bills. So here I am, telling people to eat their broccoli and lift those weights. The thing is, after everyone leaves, after the last sweaty client has dragged themselves out the door, that’s when I do it. I wait until the gym is completely empty, the lights are dimmed, and the cleaning crew hasn't shown up yet. I sneak into the locker room, find my old canvas gym bag – the one I used to carry my art supplies in, ironically – and pull out a box of donuts. Sugary ones. The ones with sprinkles, or the jelly-filled kind. I hide them under a towel, sometimes a change of clothes. Is that weird? To hide food like that? It feels like something a teenager would do. And I just… eat them. Sometimes a whole bag. Really fast, like I’m afraid someone will walk in, even though I KNOW no one will. My clients, they talk about their macros, their clean eating, their cheat days. And I nod, and I smile, and I tell them how proud I am of their discipline. And then I’m in there, in the quiet locker room, crumbs on my shirt, feeling sticky. It’s not even that I crave them all day. It’s just… a moment. A tiny, fleeting moment of something that isn't about being strong or healthy or responsible. I think maybe it’s about feeling like I’m still a person who can do something just for the sheer, ridiculous pleasure of it. Not for anyone else. Not for my clients, not for my landlord, not for the version of myself I’m supposed to be. Just for me. It’s a stupid, silly thing, I know. But sometimes, when I’m eating those donuts, I close my eyes and for a second, I’m not a trainer pushing 60, worried about rent. I’m just… enjoying a donut. And then the guilt washes over me, of course. But for a second there, it’s just… me. Is that bad? To want that? To feel that way? I don't know.