They say, “You can’t pluck a flower without shaking the stars,” and damn, that hits different when your entire life’s been micromanaged by a calorie-counting app.
Somewhere between the 28th serving of grilled chicken breast and the smug grin of my digital tracker, something inside me cracked—like, crackled rice in hot oil kind of cracked.
Not a meltdown, not a binge. Just a quiet, seismic no. And I swear, when that no came out, it sounded like freedom.
No, this isn’t some fairytale where broccoli saves your soul or kale fixes your childhood trauma. This is about dropping the fork mid-salad, walking away from the suffocating gospel of “clean eating,” and finding—of all things—a bowl.
A messy, unapologetic, full-fat, flavor-packed bowl. One that didn’t ask for macros, didn’t judge me with a drizzle of guilt, and sure as hell didn’t come with a cleanse.
We don’t talk enough about how diets strip you down, not just from the waistline, but from your joy. They’re like that one “perfect” ex who swears they’re doing it for your own good, but every interaction leaves you hollow and unsure.
The kind that never lets you rest, always wants you to do better, be better, eat less, move more. A toxic romance with almond milk and celery sticks. Sis, we’ve all been there.
It’s not about losing the weight—it’s about losing the war in your head.
The moment I walked away from food rules, something shifted. No trumpets, no epiphanies. Just silence. The kind of silence you get after a storm, when the air still tastes of chaos but everything feels… possible.
You know what replaced the spreadsheet of dos and don’ts? A bowl of warm rice with thick curry, the kind that clings to your spoon and coats your soul. And for once, the only thing I counted was how damn good it felt.
Let me break it to you gently: Food isn’t moral. It’s not a sin or a virtue. It’s survival, sure. But it’s also memory. Culture. Celebration. A protest. A prayer. A full-mouth laugh in the middle of a shitty day.
Diets rarely acknowledge that.
They promise control, but deliver obsession. They preach health, but peddle shame wrapped in “wellness” lingo. You don’t notice it at first, but eventually, your life becomes a never-ending audition for approval—you vs. the label on the back of a box. And the scariest part? You start believing it’s normal.
Well, f**k normal.
“Even a mouse will bite a cat when cornered.” That’s an old Indonesian proverb, and it fits—because when food stops being joy and turns into a jailer, sooner or later, you bite back. And that bite tastes a lot like defiance and just a little like chocolate cake.
Now let me be clear—I’m not saying eating endlessly is liberation. I’m saying not fearing your food is. There’s a difference between stuffing yourself numb and honoring your hunger.
One runs away, the other comes home. And what I found in that bowl wasn’t indulgence—it was peace. A slow, simmering kind. The kind that doesn’t scream, but stays. That lets you breathe.
We talk about soulmates in relationships, but we forget food can be a soulmate too. Not every meal, but certain ones.
That one dish that reminds you of your grandma’s kitchen, or the street corner in your hometown, or the first time someone cooked just for you. That kind of food heals. That kind of food holds. No meal plan can offer that.
I didn’t “fall off the wagon.” I burned it.
And in the ashes, I found my bowl. One that’s flawed and full and mine.
So, if you’re still sitting at a table where you have to earn your right to eat, it’s time to leave. Flip the table. Carry your hunger elsewhere. Maybe to a bowl of ramen. Or biryani. Or whatever speaks your language, not theirs.
“Peace never looked so spicy, so messy, so untracked.”
Because at the end of the day, you don’t need permission to eat.
You need permission to feel whole again.
And that? That comes from you.
