We’ve got folks out here calling a rice cake with peanut butter and a drizzle of honey a “meal”—like it’s a damn Michelin experience. Nah. That’s a snack dressed up in desperation.
A cry for help in gluten-free packaging. If your dinner fits in one palm, doesn’t make a sound when you eat it, and leaves you raiding the fridge 20 minutes later like a raccoon on Red Bull, it ain’t dinner. It’s a food ghost.
A shadow pretending to nourish you. And this whole play pretend with plastic-wrapped bites and calorie-counting delusions? It’s got your body confused and your brain half-asleep by noon.
This isn’t about kale-shaming or dragging your protein bar addiction. It’s deeper than macros and morning routines. This is about your relationship with food being reduced to a math problem.
You’re not a spreadsheet. You’re a living, breathing being with cravings, hormones, memories, and ancestral whispers that still dream of hot soup and real bread. Somewhere along the way, eating turned into a performance.
A TikTok trend. A wellness cult cosplay. And meals? They got replaced by “fuel,” like we’re Teslas in yoga pants.
Thing is, you can’t biohack your way out of emotional starvation.
See, when we keep calling that sad desk salad or those emergency almonds a “meal,” we’re not just lying to ourselves—we’re reinforcing the idea that we don’t deserve more. Not more food, but more care. More time. More presence.
Meal prep turned into emotional outsourcing. A box of tofu cubes and steamed broccoli isn’t a sign of discipline—it’s often a symptom of detachment. That’s not meal planning, that’s ghosting your own needs.
And let’s talk about those smug Instagram captions: “Clean eats 💪.” Sis. You’re eating plain chicken like you’re serving a prison sentence. Who are you punishing?
A good meal is not just about eating. It’s an act of re-membering. Not just putting food in your mouth but stitching your scattered pieces back together. Culture. Comfort. Chemistry.
When food is whole, you feel whole. But when it’s just calories in a wrapper? You’re surviving, not living. There’s a reason why a microwave meal feels lonelier than a cold bedroom. It’s because your nervous system knows that ain’t it.
We’ve normalized “convenience” to the point of disconnection. “Fast” became the goal, not “good.” That protein shake might be easy, but it’s not gonna hold you like a bowl of stew made by someone who gives a damn.
Food isn’t just about hunger. It’s about belonging. About slowing the hell down and letting your body catch up with your life.
And before someone screams “not everyone has time to cook,” pause. No one’s asking for seven-course meals with edible flowers. We’re just saying: don’t settle for crumbs and call it cuisine.
If all you’ve got is 15 minutes and one pan, make it count. Put some music on. Chop a garlic. Feel the heat. Cook like someone who deserves to eat well—not like someone ticking off another survival task.
You are not too busy to feed yourself with intention. You are just too used to putting yourself last.
If this feels like a roast, maybe it’s because part of you knows you’ve been skipping out on the ritual of real eating. Not for lack of food, but for lack of feeling. Of time. Of worth.
We’ve replaced soup with supplements, Sunday dinners with productivity hacks, and now we’re wondering why our guts are wrecked and our minds are foggy.
“Tell me what you eat, and I’ll tell you how you live.”
So yeah, stop calling that cold wrap and bottled smoothie a “meal.” That’s a pit stop. That’s survival rations. And you? You’re meant to thrive. Make a damn meal that feels like a warm hug from your grandmother and a love letter to your future self.
Because the truth is—if food is love, then you deserve something more than shrink-wrapped affection.
