One of the most fascinating and overlooked aspects of the human body is that we all carry around an “inner Accountant.” This isn’t a figure of speech for willpower or discipline. It’s a way to describe the body’s finely tuned energy management system, one that quietly tracks every movement you make, from lifting a grocery bag to bending down to pick up a piece of paper. And believe me, this Accountant is more meticulous than the IRS.
Every action is logged. Every choice is weighed against the energy it will cost. Walk across the room? That comes with a price. Carry a water bottle on a hike? That adds a tiny surcharge. The Accountant is always balancing the books, and most of the time it leans toward caution. Better to save those calories for later, it says. The future is uncertain, and energy might be needed in a moment of crisis—whether that means running from danger, lifting something heavy, or simply surviving another day without food.
This bias toward saving rather than spending has been with us for thousands of years. In the past, when food was scarce and famine was a constant threat, those who stored more energy had a better chance of survival. That’s why the Accountant doesn’t simply aim for balance; it actively prefers a surplus. A body carrying extra calories is like a household with a savings account—it’s prepared for emergencies. You can see this principle play out on survival shows like Alone, where contestants who arrive with extra body fat tend to last longer. Their reserves buy them time when food is scarce and tilt the odds in their favor when hunting or fishing doesn’t pan out.
Seen this way, fat isn’t a flaw. It’s a feature. It’s a built-in survival advantage, one that has carried humans through harsh winters, failed harvests, and long migrations. The trouble is that our modern environment has flipped the script. Food is everywhere, and the threats that once justified hoarding calories are mostly gone. Yet the inner Accountant hasn’t updated its methods. It still nudges us toward surplus, even when we’re already well-fed. That’s why we find ourselves constantly snacking, skipping workouts, or avoiding unnecessary movement. It’s not laziness—it’s biology.
This perspective has important consequences for how we think about health. It removes the blame and shame so often attached to body weight. It reframes fat not as personal failure but as the predictable outcome of a system designed for scarcity, suddenly operating in a world of abundance. Recognizing this doesn’t mean we give up on health; it means we approach it with compassion and strategy. Instead of fighting an imagined weakness of will, we’re negotiating with an ancient survival mechanism that is simply doing its job too well.
The inner Accountant is always there, balancing the books, urging caution, leaning toward saving energy rather than spending it. In the past, that default kept us alive. Today, it complicates our relationship with food and movement. But the first step in working with it is to recognize it. To hear the voice behind the hesitation and understand where it comes from. Once we do, health is no longer a battle against ourselves. It becomes a conversation with a system that has always had our survival in mind.
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