I went plant-based for 30 days—here’s how it changed me

I didn’t switch to plants because I watched a horrifying slaughterhouse documentary.

I switched because my energy levels felt like a bad Wi-Fi signal—fine one minute, buffering the next—and I kept reading about people who swore by leafy greens and bean-based miracles. Plus, as someone who writes about psychology and decision-making, I figured running a 30-day experiment on my own body was the most honest kind of research.

So I boxed up my whey protein, banished the late-night cheese sticks, and texted my omnivore friends the news: “One month, plant parade only. Wish my gut luck.”

Here’s what happened—physically, socially, and a little emotionally—when I stepped off the animal train and onto the kale highway.

1. Week one: carb euphoria and label shock

Day one looked like a Pinterest board: overnight oats with chia, rainbow salad, lentil soup simmering. I felt smug, energized, and oddly saint-like.

By day four, I’d eaten more bread than the Little Red Hen. Turns out when you cut out meat and dairy without a plan, you default to carbs. Bagels for breakfast, rice bowls for lunch, pasta for dinner. My stomach felt full yet strangely unsatisfied, like it had been promised Beyoncé tickets and got karaoke instead.

Label reading also became a part-time job. Milk powder hides in everything—crackers, dark chocolate, even salt-and-vinegar chips. One evening I spent ten minutes squinting at a can of beer because somewhere online I saw the words “isinglass (fish bladder).” I put the can back, not because I’m anti-beer, but because I’d used up all my decision fuel for the day.

Lesson: plants are safe, but processed vegan-ish snacks are a minefield. If simplicity is sanity, stick to whole foods or download a barcode-scanner app before your first grocery run.

2. Week two: taste buds reboot, social life stalls

Around day nine my tongue staged a rebellion. Plain cherry tomatoes suddenly tasted like candy. Steamed broccoli carried a sweetness I’d never noticed. By removing dairy’s fatty blanket, my palate got weirdly sharp, like someone turned up the umami dial.

I posted about it on Instagram and expected high-fives. Instead, friends DM’d invitations for Korean BBQ “just to tempt you.” The joke got old fast. Eating out became complicated: You either interrogate the server about chicken broth or order fries and watch everyone else enjoy their sizzling platters.

I skipped two hangouts because I didn’t want to be “that guest.” That’s when it hit me: food isn’t only fuel or ethics—it’s membership. Dr. Brene Brown has said, “Fitting in is about assessing a situation and becoming what you need to be.” Going plant-based challenged that reflex; suddenly I had to belong on my own terms.

3. Week three: energy spike—and emotional turbulence

This was the breakthrough week.

My mid-afternoon slump vanished. Instead of zombie-scrolling at 3 p.m., I polished off client edits like they were TikTok clips. Sleep improved, too; I fell asleep faster and woke before the alarm feeling halfway human.

But emotion? That was messier. Cutting comfort foods cut comfort, period. Cheese had been my emotional duct tape. Without it, tough feelings surfaced raw—stress, loneliness, even boredom felt louder. I spent one evening standing in front of the fridge, door open, staring at almond hummus like it owed me an apology.

As psychologist Dr. Susan Albers notes, “Sometimes we feed feelings, not stomachs.” Plants didn’t numb my feelings; they illuminated them. Uncomfortable at first, but ultimately clarifying.

4. Week four: protein games, wallet pains, identity gains

The question everyone asks: “But where do you get your protein?”

The answer: I became a bean whisperer. Black-bean chili, chickpea scramble, edamame stir-fry. I discovered tofu air-fried with soy sauce and sesame oil tastes like the crunchy bits at the bottom of a popcorn bucket—highly addictive, oddly satisfying.

Still, protein math is real. I tracked my macros and realized I’d been coasting at 50 grams a day—fine for average life, not for heavy workouts. I added a pea-rice protein powder (pricey) and bumped my lentil portions. Gains stabilized.

Money, though, took a hit. Organic nuts cost a small ransom. Oat-milk lattes run 20 percent higher at most cafés. My grocery bill climbed about $40 a week. I offset by batch-cooking and ditching delivery apps, but if budget is tight, plant-based isn’t automatically cheaper.

Identity wise, something shifted. By day 28 I stopped calling it a “challenge” and started calling it “how I eat.” That’s power: when effort morphs into baseline. It’s like when you learn a guitar chord; at first your fingers scream, then one day they land there without thinking.

5. After day thirty: what stuck, what went back, what surprised me

I celebrated with a vegan carrot cake—dense, delicious, no eggs harmed. Then I asked myself: keep going or revert?

Here’s the honest breakdown:

Stuck:
• Breakfast oats + berries combo. Fast, cheap, keeps me full.
• Legume obsession. I now eat chickpeas like popcorn.
• Dairy-free milks. Almond and oat have different vibes; both beat the lactose bloat.

Returned (in moderation):
• Pasture-raised eggs. I missed the versatility—and the vitamin B12.
• The occasional sushi night. Raw salmon remains my kryptonite.
• Butter for baking; vegan spreads never nailed the texture.

Surprised me:
• Skin clarity. Three separate friends asked what product I was using; answer: spinach.
• Coffee sensitivity. Without creamy buffers, caffeine hit harder, so I cut my cups in half.
• Mental resilience. Saying “no” a hundred times in a month—at restaurants, parties, grocery aisles—built a kind of refusal muscle that bled into other areas. I found it easier to set boundaries at work and skip doom-scroll marathons.

The tiny toolkit that kept me sane

1. Five default meals. Decision fatigue is real. Rotate dishes you can cook blindfolded.

2. Protein powder you actually like. Saves you on days when beans feel like homework.

3. One supportive friend. Mine was a longtime vegan who text-diagnosed my tofu flops.

4. A why card. I wrote: “Energy + experiment + planet,” stuck it on the fridge for weak moments.

5. Apps: Cronometer for tracking nutrients; HappyCow for finding edible food beyond salad world.

Would I recommend a 30-day plant experiment?

Yes, if you’re curious about your relationship with food, and you’re willing to read labels like a detective.

No, if you’re hoping for instant abs or moral superiority. It’s not magic; it’s a mirror.

For me, the biggest change wasn’t physical. It was the realization that habits aren’t cement—they’re Velcro. Pull hard enough, and they detach. Swap animal protein for plants, and your body, taste buds, schedule—even your social script—rewires faster than you think.

And that’s the real win: proof that change is teachable. If I can rewire breakfast, maybe I can rewire procrastination. Or my doom-scroll bedtime routine. Or the way I default to “yes” when I mean “maybe.”

Thirty days of plants taught me I’m more adaptable than I’ve ever given myself credit for. That lesson tastes better than any cheese stick or piece of meat I’ve ever had—and I say that as a former mozzarella loyalist.