Bernard O'Shea: 5 things to do in November for a head start on your New Year’s weight loss
Small changes now mean you don’t spend January trying to undo December. This year, November-Bernard is finally doing some groundwork. Not dramatic. Not glamorous. Not Instagrammable. Just enough to make January feel human again.
I picture this heroic future version of me jogging through frost, humming with discipline, radiating smugness. And every year, by January 3, I am back in my pyjamas eating the 'leftover' Celebrations — leftovers meaning 'the ones nobody in the house likes but I’m eating anyway because I’m weak'.
So this year, instead of waiting for the great cleanse of January 1, I asked someone sensible — Jill Taylor, fitness coach — what tiny things I could start doing now, in November and December, that wouldn’t make January feel like a punishment.
Jill is not dramatic. She is not into grand gestures. She is practical to the point. But she gave me five pieces of advice so simple, so painfully doable, that I had no excuses left.
Here are the five things I learned
I told her that in December, my vegetables are usually decorative — a sprig of parsley on something deep-fried. But her point was annoyingly solid: if you anchor the meal with protein and veg, you stay full and your calories don’t go rogue.
I tried it for a week. Less beige. More actual colour on the plate. And weirdly — I wasn’t starving an hour later. I wasn’t panicking at 4pm. I wasn’t inhaling a random slice of toast before bed.
It’s not glamorous, but it works — which annoys me deeply.
This is the most Irish-friendly exercise advice I’ve ever heard. She’s not asking me to deadlift the car or sign up for a bootcamp on a beach in November. She’s saying: move your legs… a bit more.
I can do that. What I loved was the long-game nature of it: Those extra 15–20 minutes a day aren’t about burning 400 calories now — they’re about accumulating a quiet advantage over the next eight weeks. A sneaky head start. My favourite kind of progress.
This one hurt me.
I thought smoothies were the healthy option. I thought a juice with a green label meant it was virtuous. I thought 'midweek wine' was part of my personality. But Jill’s rule is brutal and simple: Don’t drink your calories. Eat them.
Because apparently, when you drink calories, your brain barely registers them — which is how you end up having a 400-calorie smoothie and then still eating lunch like a man who hasn’t been fed in days.
Since cutting back, my evenings are quieter and — unexpectedly — my appetite is calmer. I’m not rummaging in the fridge with the urgency of someone in a nature documentary. It’s a good rule. A painful rule, as I love — and I mean love — fizzy drinks.
This is where Jill’s practicality really shines. I am an impulse eater. A kitchen-presser. A late-night prowler. If hunger hits and I’m unprepared, I will eat things no rational adult should combine.
Jill’s logic is simple: if you have high-protein snacks ready, you don’t panic-eat nonsense.
Now, because I can’t eat nuts, eggs, or a range of other normal foods, I assumed this rule didn’t apply to me. She said it still does — just find the snacks that do work and have them ready. So I now keep a few pre-planned options in the fridge instead of waiting until 10pm, when I enter my 'fox rummaging through the bins' phase.
It’s boring. It’s disciplined. It’s upsetting to my wild, chaotic soul. But she’s right: planning beats hunger.
Planning always beats hunger.
This was the line that broke me. In a good way. I am a perfectionist in the worst possible way: If I mess up on Wednesday, I declare the whole week a write-off and begin again 'next Monday'. Sometimes I have three Mondays in a row.
But Jill doesn’t want perfection — just 'good enough'. Three or four days a week, where you’re doing some version of the right things: protein, veg, a walk, no liquid calories, a planned snack.
And if you miss a day? You don’t reset the universe. You just do the next thing.
The next few weeks will absolutely be messy — school events, work drinks, tins of Roses appearing like seasonal wildlife — but small changes now mean you don’t spend January trying to undo December.
'Good enough' is the first diet advice I’ve ever found emotionally achievable. It feels like permission to be human.
Jill’s five gems of wisdom are the opposite of a grand transformation plan. They are small. Manageable. Almost annoyingly reasonable. But that’s why they work. Because January Bernard, historically, is furious at December Bernard. He has to clean up the mess — the overeating, the under-moving, the 'ah sure one more won’t hurt'.
But this year, November Bernard is finally doing some groundwork. Not dramatic. Not glamorous. Not Instagrammable. Just enough to make January feel human again.
And honestly?
That might be the best gift I give myself all Christmas.

