If there’s one thing I love almost as much as vegan donuts, it’s a good challenge.
So naturally, I thought: What if I smash two trendy wellness ideas together, vegan eating and intermittent fasting, and see what happens?
Spoiler: it wasn’t all green smoothies and enlightenment.
There were some awkwardly long mornings, a few questionable snack hacks, and one very tense standoff with a bag of kettle chips at 11 p.m.
But after 30 days of experimenting, I figured out how to make fasting not feel like punishment and even kind of enjoyable.
Here’s what went down, what I learned, and how I kept hunger from totally wrecking me.
Why I tried intermittent fasting in the first place
Intermittent fasting is basically the Beyoncé of diet trends: everybody talks about it, some people swear by it, and it sounds way cooler than “just stop eating for a while.”
I wasn’t doing this because I wanted to shrink two pant sizes or punish myself for late-night vegan pizza.
For me, it was more curiosity than vanity. I’ve been vegan long enough to know my body feels better without animal products.
But hunger? Hunger is a whole different animal.
Sometimes it’s legit hunger, sometimes it’s boredom, and sometimes it’s just my brain whispering, “Wouldn’t it be fun to eat peanut butter straight from the jar right now?”
So I wanted to see if fasting could teach me to tell the difference between actual hunger and “snack-ish feelings.”
The rules I set for myself
I picked the 16:8 method: fasting for 16 hours, eating during an 8-hour window.
For me, that meant skipping breakfast and eating from noon to 8 p.m. It sounded manageable on paper.
I also promised myself I’d stick to whole, plant-based foods as much as possible, no justifying vegan candy at 7:59 p.m. as a “balanced meal.”
Simple rules, right? Well, let’s just say the first week was humbling.
Week 1: the struggle breakfasts
Picture this: It’s 10 a.m. on Day One. I’ve been awake for three hours, my stomach sounds like a dying lawn mower, and my co-worker (bless their cruel soul) decides to heat up leftover pancakes in the office microwave.
I sat there sipping black coffee like some sort of tortured philosopher, trying to convince myself hunger is ‘just a sensation.’ Newsflash: sensations don’t smell like maple syrup.
The first week was rough. I realized how much of my morning routine was built around eating.
Breakfast wasn’t just food, it was ritual, comfort, distraction. Without it, I felt weirdly exposed, like my brain kept looking for a cozy routine and finding only coffee breath.
Lesson #1: The hardest part isn’t physical hunger, it’s breaking habits.
Week 2: finding my hacks
By this time, my body was less dramatic about missing breakfast. The lawn mower growls quieted down, and I started experimenting with tricks to make fasting easier.
Hydration became my BFF. I guzzled water like a camel at happy hour. Sometimes thirst shows up wearing a “hunger” mask, and hydration unmasked it.
Fiber and protein for the win. When I finally ate at noon, I made sure my meals actually stuck around. Lentils, chickpeas, tofu, whole grains—these became my squad. A chickpea salad sandwich? Instant satiety.
Mindful distractions. I realized if I stayed glued to my phone, I’d just scroll food content until I was ready to chew my charger. So I walked, journaled, or worked on projects until the eating window.
That week, I had my first small win: making it to noon without fantasizing about pancakes. Progress.
Story time: the hummus incident
Around Day 12, I had what I now call The Hummus Incident. I woke up ravenous, convinced I wouldn’t survive without eating. I opened the fridge, stared at the tub of hummus, and thought, “Who would even know if I cheated?”
Then I imagined myself writing this article and having to confess, “I quit at hummus.” That mental picture was so tragic it actually stopped me.
Instead, I slammed a sparkling water and reminded myself: the hummus will still be there at noon. And it was. And it tasted like victory.
Week 3: the mental shift
By the third week, something surprising happened—I wasn’t obsessed with food anymore. Hunger stopped feeling like a five-alarm emergency and started feeling more like background noise.
That’s when I realized intermittent fasting isn’t about white-knuckling through starvation. It’s about learning to ride the waves of hunger.
Hunger comes, hunger goes. And when you stop panicking about it, you start noticing it’s not as unbearable as your brain claims.
Even better, my energy evened out. No more mid-afternoon slumps. I felt sharper, calmer, more in tune with when I actually needed food.
Lesson #2: Fasting is less about controlling hunger and more about befriending it.
Week 4: the social tests
Just when I thought I had this thing figured out, life threw me a curveball: a friend’s birthday dinner that started at 9 p.m.
Normally, I’d have been three snacks deep and ready for bed.
But here I was, trying to stick to my “done eating by 8” plan while everyone else was ordering vegan nachos. I compromised—joined the fun, ate lightly, and didn’t beat myself up.
That was another big takeaway: fasting doesn’t mean being antisocial.
It means finding a rhythm that works most of the time, then being flexible when life happens. Because life always happens.
The strategies that saved me
Here’s what actually worked to keep hunger in check during my 30-day vegan intermittent fasting experiment.
Protein + fiber at every meal. Lentils, tofu, beans, and hearty grains became my hunger shields.
Healthy fats. Avocado toast may be a cliché, but trust me—it kept me fuller way longer than rice cakes.
Hydration tricks. Sparkling water, herbal tea, even plain water—these were my hunger pacifiers.
Mindset reframes. Instead of “I can’t eat yet,” I told myself, “I’m giving my body space to reset.” Sounds cheesy, but it worked.
Permission to be flexible. Social life > strict rules. I bent the window when I had to.
What I noticed after 30 days
Here’s the real tea: did intermittent fasting change my life forever? Not exactly.
But it did shift a few things:
I became more aware of why I eat (boredom vs. actual hunger).
I learned my body doesn’t freak out as much as my brain thinks it will when I skip a meal.
I felt steadier energy throughout the day, without the rollercoaster of constant snacking.
Food tasted more satisfying when I did eat—especially that post-fast hummus.
I also realized intermittent fasting isn’t some magical solution. It’s just one tool among many. And like any tool, it only works if it fits your lifestyle.
Final thoughts: was it worth it?
Would I recommend vegan intermittent fasting? Yes, with a caveat.
If you’re curious, it’s worth trying. It can teach you a lot about hunger, habit, and what your body actually needs.
But it’s not a contest, and it’s definitely not about perfection.
If you fast one day and face-plant into vegan nachos the next, you haven’t failed. You’ve just learned.
For me, the biggest win wasn’t losing weight or “biohacking my mitochondria.”
It was realizing I don’t need to answer every little hunger whisper with a snack.
Sometimes the best thing to do is just sip water, ride it out, and wait for the hummus.
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