Eating.

Today, driving home from a visit with friends, is when I decided to start this blog.

I was going to write a whole-ass book but realized a blog format was much more palatable for me. Instant exposure and shorter posts that can be as long as I want. So here we are.

I’ll get into the future nitty-gritty of what is already written, but today is a new, impromptu topic.

Eating.

I don’t know if this is an American thing, or a “my group of people” thing, but eating is fucked up.

Not the basic concept of fuel to stay alive. That’s the simple part.

It’s the part where food consumption is basically militarized.

I can’t remember the last time I had a meal without encountering some sort of guilt.

Am I eating too much?

Am I eating too little?

How much did this cost?

Is this portion acceptable for the price?

I hate the service. Why do I need to tip?

(Because capitalism!)

I have food at home!

(But nothing I want to eat!)

I love eating.

Not only as a coping mechanism, but as an activity of camaraderie. I love the ambiance of a dimly lit restaurant. I love trying things with people. I love food as an experience.

I’m also a lazy cook.

I WANT to learn how to make things, but making things costs money—not just for the ingredients themselves, but for the cookware, appliances, and specialty machines. This is another layer of guilt I experience every time I go to make a meal.

It’s like a constant good-versus-evil debate.

As I like to say, inner turmoil is my favorite oil.

In this case, cooking oil.

Having to battle with these daily decisions every time my stomach rumbles is already enough pressure without mixing in society’s concept of food culture.

And holy shit, there is a lot of food culture.

Diets—whether they’re for allergies, ethics, health, or weight loss—are EVERYWHERE.

Keto. Carnivore. Gluten-free. Vegan. Pescatarian. Paleo. Intermittent fasting. Whatever the fuck someone on TikTok has decided is going to change your life this week.

There are so many options, and somehow every single one of them is wrong.

I can’t get through a day without someone remarking on another person’s choice of food or beverage.

There’s always judgment.

I’ve always struggled with food.

I’ve always been heavier. I have a natural sweet tooth and a love for carbonation and bread. Potatoes come in MANY forms.

Plus, my parents never really cooked particularly healthy meals.

During my 11th and 12th grade years, I had what I would call a baby eating disorder. I wouldn’t necessarily classify what I was doing as a full-blown eating disorder, but I was absolutely engaging in disordered behaviors.

I counted calories.

I exercised for multiple hours a day.

I cut out most sweets and all processed meats, so no fast food.

And I lost about 30 pounds.

I went from 180 pounds, my then heaviest, to 145 at my lowest.

My mental health was THRIVING.

And that’s the fucked-up part.

Because I was obsessed with counting everything I consumed. If I couldn’t count it, I either wouldn’t eat it or I’d work out for an extra hour.

Everyone said I looked great.

Obviously.

Because our culture loves thin people.

You want to be friends with thin people.

The manic pixie dream girl is always some waif-like figure. If you have her interests when you’re fat, you’re a fanatic. If you lose 50 pounds, suddenly you’re Ramona Flowers or Zooey Deschanel.

Unobtainable.

Eccentric.

Cute.

Interesting.

Thin enough to be quirky instead of weird.

Now, as an adult who gained 80 pounds after graduating and has since lost about 35 of those pounds, let me just say:

Everything is hard.

You’re aware of your disordered eating.

You want to lose weight to not only be healthier, but also to reattain that status of desirable.

When it was easy to find clothes that fit without even trying them on.

Going to the beach without shame.

Not being ashamed of being in pictures.

Not wondering how you're going to look sitting down.

Not wondering if someone is looking at you.

It’s hard enough being self-aware.

Now let’s introduce your friends and family.

Your significant other has disordered eating, and suddenly you’re responsible for that because you’ve caused them to gain weight by encouraging your own unhealthy habits.

Your parents have remarked on your weight your entire life.

Your thighs are too large.

Your clothes are too tight.

Everything in style makes you look SLUTTY because everything is always tight in the wrong places or riding up from chafing.

Then there are your best friends, always dieting.

Always remarking on the cost of food.

Talking about their eating habits with pride when they follow one of their fad diets to the T, then becoming frustrated when it doesn’t work because bodies are complicated and there isn't a single diet that works identically for everyone.

And I hate all of it.

I hate being reminded while I’m eating that I should feel ashamed of those calories.

I hate getting seconds when my friends pick around their first plate, pecking like dissatisfied birds.

I hate grocery shopping because it’s a huge trigger for my anxiety, and I usually default to easy garbage or things I already know how to make.

I hate being a picky eater and a hater of vegetables.

I hate feeling AWFUL when I’m hungry because I know hunger is a normal biological signal, but I’ve also been programmed to eat at all times.

I hate using food as a coping mechanism whenever I’m stressed, which is daily.

I hate my friends putting themselves down because they are all SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL and worthy regardless of their size.

I hate automatically judging people based on their weight because of a lifetime of conditioning.

I hate clothing sizes not being standardized, and having to be ashamed of a number—or being limited because most places don’t even cater to that imaginary number.

I hate metabolisms because some people can eat literal horseshit and never gain a pound while I can feel like I ate nothing but kale for a month and somehow my body still refuses to cooperate.

I hate how my best friend has cancer, and every time I want to eat junk with her, I’m reminded that I’m somehow feeding her illness.

I hate how I can’t commit to my husband and stick to a diet with him so that we can both be healthy because, honestly, I am afraid.

Afraid of failing.

Afraid of becoming obsessed again.

Afraid that if I start counting, I won’t know when to stop.

Afraid that wanting to be healthier will turn into hating myself again.

Without food, and without spending copious amounts of money, all I have is myself.

And maybe that’s the point.

I want to do better.

But every choice I make has to be a conscious choice.

I’m compiling a list of vegetable recipes because I sincerely want to try to make a change. I want to live purposefully and get back to that long-abandoned headspace where I felt good about myself.

Where I felt worthy.

But I also don’t want to rely on weight loss to feel those things.

I’m worthy now.

That’s the contradiction.

I want to change, but I don’t want to believe I need to change in order to deserve myself.

I think that back-and-forth is part of what makes it so fucking difficult.

It’s always fat versus thin.

Fat isn’t a bad word.

I believe that.

There’s even fat glorification now, which is fine! People deserve to exist without being ashamed of their bodies.

But where is health glorification?

Where is the middle ground where we can say:

I love my body, and I want to take care of it.

Those things aren't mutually exclusive.

I want to be able to hold myself accountable without feeling pressured into it.

I think my stubbornness is part of what makes it harder.

Feeling like I shouldn’t have to prove anything—whether that’s through weight loss or through loving who I am in the moment.

I need to remember that I only have this one body.

I need to take care of it.

And I can’t limit my entire life based on what my flesh prison looks like at any given moment.

That all sort of got off on a tangent, but you know what I mean?

I want you to love yourself now, but love yourself for the future, too.

Regardless of what that means for you.

Maybe that means losing weight for health reasons.

Maybe it means making peace with how your body looks or settles even when you are eating well and exercising regularly.

Maybe it means learning how to eat without guilt.

Maybe it means learning that you’re allowed to have dessert.

Maybe it means figuring out how to feed yourself when you’re depressed and everything feels impossible.

Maybe it means getting stronger.

Maybe it means resting.

Maybe it means absolutely nothing changes about your weight.

Health is not a body type.

I also want to exercise as soon as I’m healed from surgery.

I love dancing!

I want to try roller derby.

I want to take pole classes.

I’d love to hike.

Do CrossFit.

Jog a marathon.

The human body is fucking amazing.

We are marble, and we can be sculpted and strengthened and changed in so many ways.

But I feel like too many people have an idea of what they SHOULD look like, even if that body is 3,000% impossible for their particular form.

If you have a larger frame, you may never look like Kate Moss.

That doesn't mean you're doing something wrong.

Bodies have different proportions.

You can exercise six times a week and still never have a six-pack.

And that’s okay.

I look 100% different from what I thought I’d look like when I grew up.

Even at my thinnest, in a size-small shirt and size-11 pants, my fat still hung out in weird places.

And that was a low weight for my height.

Maybe I could be a size-zero pants someday.

I’m not counting on it.

And that’s another thing I want to remember:

Set realistic expectations for your health journey.

Break it down.

Set a series of obtainable goals.

They don’t even have to be weight-related.

Maybe it’s:

“I want to climb the stairs without feeling winded.”

That’s a goal.

Maybe it’s walking for 20 minutes.

Maybe it’s cooking one new vegetable.

Maybe it’s drinking more water.

Maybe it’s going to a fitness class without worrying about what you look like.

And if weight loss is one of your goals, celebrate the non-scale victories, too.

More stamina.

More strength.

Better sleep.

Clothes fitting differently.

Being able to do something you couldn’t do six months ago.

Even weird shit, like your fingers being slightly less sausage-like.

Celebrate it.

Your body is doing things for you every single day.

Maybe we should stop treating it like an enemy we have to defeat.

This was just a giant rant with some advice and observations thrown in, but I hope you enjoyed it and could understand what I mean.

I don’t think I have food figured out.

I don’t think anyone does.

But I’m tired of treating every meal like a moral referendum.

I want to eat.

I want to enjoy food.

I want to take care of myself.

I want to move my body because it feels good.

I want to change things that genuinely need changing without turning myself into a project.

And most importantly:

I want to be worthy before, during, and after.

So go forth without shame.

Eat the fucking potato.

And let’s talk about it.