Bleary-eyed, I set my alarm for the following morning. Counting on calloused fingers, that would give me five and a half hours of sleep until the dulcet tones of Apple’s Slow Rise alarm blared out and my healthy life would begin afresh. It didn’t matter that I had come home late after seeing friends; I had a workout booked for 6am. The cost of missing it – £25 – was not worth the extra shut-eye.

Six years later, that routine feels like another life – a life where I actively worked against my body, willing it to be fitter, smaller and better by brute force alone. At the time, I believed myself to be the picture of health.

I had an active social life and an eye-wateringly expensive membership to a fancy workout studio. I obsessively meal-prepped, carting meals, snacks and drinks between home and the office. I drank less often but would consume much more whenever I did. I swapped sleep for activity, regularly clocking up only five or six hours’ kip. And I ignored the constant thrum of anxiety in my chest.

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