The Dad Bod Diaries Week 5: When the obvious measure fails — turn to dark chocolate instead

The weighing scales haven’t budged off 17 stone, but my eating has changed completely — and it’s making me realise how often we judge progress by the most obvious measure

Bernard O'Shea: 'I brought a packed lunch to a gig. I was backstage, opening a lunchbox like a man who has his life together. This is the same man who used to treat gigs like a free-for-all on nutrition.'

There's a particular cruelty to the weighing scales when you’re actually trying to lose weight.

Seventeen stone. Again. I stepped on them twice, because that’s what men do when confronted with
disappointment — we assume it’s a technical issue. Maybe the floor’s uneven. Maybe the batteries are low. Maybe gravity is having an off day.

Nope. Seventeen stone, firm and unmoved as a verdict that had already been decided. Normally, that number would have sent me into a spiral — doubting everything I’d eaten, everything I’d planned, and whether carrots were just a long-running scam. But this time, something unusual happened. I didn’t feel defeated. I felt… fine.

Psychologists will tell you we cling to numbers because they give us certainty. A number feels clean. Objective. Final. You step on a scale, and it delivers a verdict that feels like truth, even when it’s telling only part of the story. The problem is, the most obvious measure is rarely the most useful one.

Weight is easy to track. That’s why it dominates everything. But it doesn’t tell you how you’re eating, how you’re sleeping, how anxious you are around food, or whether your habits are actually changing. And this isn’t just about weight. We do it everywhere.

We measure success by salary instead of satisfaction. Friendship by frequency instead of depth. Parenting by milestones instead of emotional safety. We grab the easiest number and let it define us, even when it’s wildly incomplete.

Despite the scales’ firm refusal to acknowledge my existence, my eating has shifted in ways that feel meaningful. I’m eating more food — just different food. More veg. More salads. I’m fuller. I’m steadier. For the first time, food feels not quite like a negotiation and more like something that just… happens. Which brings me to a behaviour that, frankly, shocked me.

I brought a packed lunch to a gig.

I was backstage, opening a lunchbox like a man who has his life together, listening to the faint drone of an audience taking their seats. This is the same man who used to treat gigs like a free-for-all on nutrition. The same man who believed anything eaten after a show didn’t count. And now here I was, calmly eating planned food before going on stage. The scales don’t measure that.

Another quiet change has made its way in at home, and it revolves around treats — specifically, hiding them. I have started hiding my children’s treats. Not because I’m selfish. Not because I’m cruel. But because children are saboteurs.

It doesn’t matter what you buy. Even if they don’t like it. Even if they’ve never shown the slightest interest in it. The moment they see it’s yours, they must investigate.

Turkish Delight is a perfect example. None of them like Turkish Delight. They’ve never liked Turkish Delight. But if I buy it, suddenly they’re experts. They’ll open it. Take one bite. Pull a face. And then — the real crime — leave it half-eaten in the wrapper. That’s not curiosity. That’s psychological warfare.

Last year, for my birthday, my sister bought me a selection of exotic chocolate flavours: bitter cherry, pistachio, and chilli. Handing them over, she said casually: “The kids won’t like them.”

The chocolates lived peacefully in the cupboard. They weren’t inhaled. They weren’t fought over. They weren’t mysteriously disappearing. They were visited occasionally, respectfully, like a civilised arrangement between adults. That’s when something clicked.

The issue wasn’t treats. It was access. It was a disorder. It was a competition.

Bernard O'Shea: 'Bodies don’t respond instantly, especially not in your 40s. They change quietly. Slowly. Cautiously. Almost as if they’re waiting to see if you mean it this time. So I’m changing how I measure progress.'

Which brings me to the dark chocolate. I’ve started keeping dark chocolate in the fridge. Not hiding it. Not banning it. Just placing it there, calmly, where it belongs. The kids aren’t interested. They glance at it, shrug, and move on. And the strangest thing is — it stays there. I’ll take a square. Sometimes two. 

Then I close the door and walk away like a man who trusts himself. This is new territory. Psychologically, it’s huge. When food stops being forbidden, it stops being urgent.

There’s a psychological trap called the availability heuristic — we overvalue what’s easiest to see. The scale is right there, so we let it dominate the story. But the deeper measures, the ones that actually predict success, are harder to spot, like planning ahead, reduced anxiety, steadier energy, fewer all-or-nothing swings. You know, all those boring non-three-stone-down-in-a-week kind of things.

If you ignore those because the obvious number hasn’t changed yet, you’re far more likely to quit. Which is exactly what I’ve always done before.

This is usually the point where I’d give up. The scales don’t move. I decide it’s not working. I abandon the whole thing with the consoling belief that at least I tried. But I’m starting to recognise that pattern for what it is: impatience dressed up as logic.

Bodies don’t respond instantly, especially in your 40s. They change quietly. Cautiously. Almost as if they’re waiting to see if you mean it this time. So I’m changing how I measure progress.

Success now looks like bringing food with me instead of winging it, eating vegetables without resentment, not panicking around treats, not competing with my children for chocolate, and not undoing a good day because of a single imperfect moment. None of that appears on the scale. All of it appears in my life.

The scales still say 17 stone. They remain unimpressed. Entirely unmoved by carrots, packed lunches, or chocolate diplomacy. But for the first time, I’m not letting the most obvious measure drown out the quieter ones. Sometimes the number stays the same — and everything else changes.