It was a Thursday afternoon. I was walking along the beach.

Mild wind on my face. Sound of the ocean in my ears. Light clothes, easy steps. It should have felt peaceful.

But my mind had drifted — into work, money, life, all the problems I couldn't solve. And even though I was carrying nothing, it felt like I had a heavy backpack strapped to my shoulders. Filled with invisible stones. Slowing me down.

You've been there.

So what do you do? How do you take off a backpack that was never meant to be carried?

If you've ever lain awake at night — feeling the weight of everything you're carrying, worrying how it will all unfold, trying to think or meditate or journal your way to a solution — you're carrying a backpack on your head in a train that's already moving.

You've tried putting it down. You've read the books. Done the inner work. Sat in silence. But the thoughts circle back. The weight returns by morning.

You can't think your way out of something you thought your way into.

I carried that bag for years. Then something unexpected forced me to let go — not through more effort, but through surrender.

That afternoon on the beach, an idea came to me. Like a flash. Something I'd been wanting to do for some time — a prolonged water fast — but never found "time" to.

But in that instance, I thought:

I counted and realized it would end on my 33rd birthday.

My 33rd birthday. I'd felt for years that something would shift at 33. Don't ask me why. I just knew.

This is it, I said. This is the sign.

So I went home, prepared my last meal, and started the clock on something that would reset my body, mind, and spirit.

Something that would help me finally take off the backpack.

Here's what I learned:

The backpack wasn't filled with my problems. It was filled with my body's noise.

A busy gut makes a busy mind. They feed each other. All those years of inner work — meditation, sitting in silence, trying to be present — I was fighting biology with psychology.

Biology wins.

Fasting interrupts both. When there's no food to digest, the body goes quiet. And when the body goes quiet, so does the mind.

But the body doesn't let go easily. It protests first. Then it surrenders.

Before you begin

A prolonged water fast — 3 to 5 days — requires preparation. Not optional.

You'll need salt and electrolytes.

In the first days especially, as your metabolism shifts from burning glucose to burning fat, your kidneys flush water and sodium at a higher rate. This is why people feel weak, dizzy, headachy — not hunger, but mineral depletion. Salt isn't a luxury here. It's what keeps your heart rhythm steady, your muscles from cramping, your mind clear enough to notice the stillness you came for.

A pinch of sea salt in water. A cap of electrolyte solution.

Days 1-3: The resistance

The mornings were manageable.

My body was already in ketosis from the carnivore diet — burning fat instead of glucose. No carbs meant no crash. Insulin stayed low, ketones kept me running. I thought I'd found a loophole.

From morning to noon, I could focus. I worked. My mind was clear enough. I got things done.

But by afternoon, something shifted.

Around 4 or 5PM, hunger stopped whispering and started speaking. Not screaming — but present. Constant. My mind kept drifting to food. Burgers. Eggs. Bacon. I'd catch myself mentally preparing meals I wasn't allowed to eat.

I drank water. It helped — for a while. Then the thoughts came back.

The evenings were heavy. My body felt slower. Like the backpack was getting heavier, not lighter. I told myself this was part of it. The process. The purge.

I did some walking, but it felt like I dragged and forced myself through it. I tried to stay present. But there was a low noise underneath everything — a quiet resistance. The body asking:

I didn't have a good answer. Just faith that something was waiting on the other side.

I went to bed tired. Not peaceful — just done with the day.

Then Day 4 hit. And everything changed.

Day 4: The shift

Day 4. I woke at 5:30AM — same as before — and slipped into deep work. Nothing felt different. Yet.

I checked the clock in the afternoon — 6PM — and thought: holy sht.* I had worked for almost 12 hours straight without realizing it. I was locked in. My focus was a laser. Energy I didn't know I had.

"Is this the shift I've been waiting for?" I asked myself.

My mind felt like a blank canvas. And what was left was just pure presence. Something I'd touched before — in meditation, on psychedelics. But during fasting, it was revealed without effort.

Presence wasn't something I achieved. It was what remained when I stopped blocking it.

I wasn't carrying my problems. I was carrying my body's noise. And when the body went quiet, the weight disappeared.

I made sure to finish up my work. I went for a walk expecting to drag myself home. Instead I felt like I could keep walking forever. I felt connected to everything — the ocean, nature, people around me and even their dogs.

I walked home slowly — not because I was tired, but because I didn't want it to end. The weight I'd been carrying for three days was gone. And what replaced it wasn't excitement or bliss. It was something quieter. Something I'd been looking for externally.

Stillness. Without effort.

The fast didn't give me anything new. It just removed what was in the way.

Day 5.

The fast ended. I broke it with bone broth — light, easy, letting the body rebuild slowly.

That Thursday afternoon — before the fast — when the thoughts surfaced, I was pulled into worry and overthinking. Chasing solutions for hours, creating a downward spiral.

A week later, the same thought appeared.

But this time, I watched it rise — and let it pass. No weight attached.

I still walk that beach. The problems didn't disappear — some of them solved themselves, some didn't matter anymore, some I handled from a different place.

But the backpack is gone. Not because I figured out how to carry it. Because I stopped feeding the weight.

I eat carnivore now. No carbs, no processed noise. It keeps the body quiet. And when the body's quiet, so is the mind. The fast showed me what was possible. This way of eating lets me live there.

A 5-day water fast isn't for everyone. But the principle is.

Remove what's creating the noise. Let the body settle. See what remains.

If you've been carrying that bag — the loops, the crashes, the weight that returns by morning — and you're ready to set it down, I'm guiding a 30-day reset. No forcing. Just removing the interference.

Check it out here: https://www.skool.com/the-flow-method-9786​

Here's what I wish someone told me on that beach:

The backpack isn't filled with your problems. It's filled with your body. Let the body rest, and the weight takes care of itself.

All Love,

Tomas