There was a time when I didn’t even realize I had eaten until I saw the empty wrapper on the counter.
I’d be standing in the kitchen — heart racing, mind spinning, kids yelling in the background — and suddenly I’d find myself halfway through a bag of something sweet or salty, not even remembering how it started. I wasn’t hungry. I was overwhelmed. I was touched-out. I was craving quiet and couldn’t find it. I just wanted to feel better for a second.
That was my normal for a long time.
It felt like food was the only thing that didn’t ask anything of me. It didn’t need me to be patient or regulated or productive or strong. It just let me escape — for a few minutes.
But afterward? I felt worse. Sluggish. Guilty. Distant from my own body. And that’s when I realized: I didn’t want food to be my only safe place. I wanted me to be my safe place.
Mindful eating became my slow return back to myself. Not as a diet. Not as a punishment. But as a way to reconnect. To pause. To listen. To be with myself, instead of running away from everything I was feeling.
What Is Mindful Eating, Really?
Mindful eating is the practice of bringing your full awareness to the act of eating — from the first craving to the last bite. It’s about noticing, choosing, and experiencing your food with intention.
It’s not about eating perfectly, or only eating kale, or giving up sugar forever. It’s not about counting every macro or chewing each bite 47 times.
It’s about breaking the cycle of numbing out, speeding through, and self-shaming. It’s about slowing down long enough to feel safe in your body again.
My Old Patterns: Automatic and Invisible
There were so many triggers I didn’t see clearly until I started paying attention. — When I was alone, especially at night — food filled the silence. — When I was sick or tired, I craved sugar and salt like a lifeline. — When I felt anxious, I needed the crunch or the chew or the sweetness. — When I was overstimulated (hello, toddler meltdowns), it gave me something to control.
It was so automatic, I didn’t even notice it happening. Until I was already knee-deep in brownie batter, or licking the inside of the peanut butter jar, or hiding the wrapper because I didn’t want to admit how out of control I felt.
But mindful eating isn’t about willpower. It’s about awareness.
The goal isn’t to never emotionally eat again. The goal is to notice the why — and then gently decide, “What do I really need right now?”
Sometimes the answer is still food. But other times, it’s a nap. A breath. A moment alone. Or just permission to cry.
What Mindful Eating Looks Like in My Life Now
I’m not perfect at this. I still slip. But I’ve created some habits that help me reconnect before, during, and after I eat.
Before I Eat:
I take a breath — even just one — before I grab something. It gives me a chance to ask: What am I feeling? What do I really need?
I pause and name my hunger. Is this physical hunger or emotional hunger? Both are valid. But they need different care.
I remind myself I’m allowed to enjoy food. This helps take away the guilt, so I can actually feel satisfied — instead of stuck in a shame loop.
While I Eat:
I sit down (when I can). Even if it’s just on the floor with my toddler. I try not to eat standing up like I’m rushing through life.
I put the food on a plate instead of eating from the package. It makes the act feel more intentional.
I check in halfway through. Am I still hungry? Am I full but still wanting more for emotional reasons? Just asking the question helps.
After I Eat:
I take a moment to notice how I feel. Did that food satisfy me? Or am I still needing something deeper — connection, rest, stillness?
I give myself grace. There is no “perfect” here. Some days I eat mindfully. Some days I eat emotionally. Both are human. I’m still healing.
Mindful Eating Is Not About Control. It’s About Curiosity.
For years, I thought healing my relationship with food meant I had to control it. Track it. Conquer it. But it turns out, control was never the answer. Compassion was.
Now, instead of saying, “Why did I eat that?” I ask: “What was I needing?” And that question alone softens everything.
Because at the end of the day, mindful eating isn’t about food. It’s about presence. Awareness. And the courage to stay with yourself — even in the messiest moments.
I’m not here to eat perfectly. I’m here to feel whole.
And every time I eat with intention, every time I choose connection over control, I come home to myself a little more.
If You’re Just Starting This Journey
Here’s what I’d say to you, mama — if you’re where I was:
Start small. Just one breath before eating is enough.
Get curious, not judgmental. Every moment is feedback, not failure.
You don’t need a plan, or rules, or a perfect kitchen. You just need a willingness to come back to yourself.
The goal isn’t to never eat emotionally. It’s to understand what your emotions are asking for.
You’re not broken. You’re just tired. And maybe food was the only one listening for a while. But now… you are.
Sugar has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. What started as an innocent treat quickly spiraled into a full-blown addiction, consuming my life, my health, and my happiness. But through years of struggle, heartache, and healing, I’ve found my way out—and I want to share everything I’ve learned with you. Here’s the quick version of my story.
When I was around 17 or 18, still living with my parents, I was obsessed with Twizzlers. They weren’t just candy to me; they were nostalgia—memories of movie nights and camping trips. They gave me comfort, routine, and familiarity during a time of transition between adolescence and adulthood. I would sneak them into my room or nibble on them late at night while watching TV. But one day, something bizarre happened that shifted everything.
I was in the shower when I noticed something red coming from my belly button. Panic set in. I thought I was bleeding. I threw on my bathrobe, ran to my mom, and started freaking out. But then, I dug around and pulled out a red, slimy piece. I sniffed it, and that’s when I laughed—it was a piece of Twizzlers! How it got there? I had no clue. I hadn’t even eaten any for five days. After that, my obsession with Twizzlers lost its appeal a little bit. The absurdity of the moment cracked something open in me: maybe this love affair with candy wasn’t so harmless after all.
When I moved into an apartment with my soon-to-be husband, my sugar addiction evolved into something more secretive—and more destructive. Sour Punch Bites became my new obsession. I would walk into Target and somehow always find myself in the candy aisle, pretending I was just grabbing a few things. I remember the thrill of ripping open that bag in the car and stuffing handfuls into my mouth. I wasn’t eating for taste—I was eating to escape.
It was a double life. I would buy huge bags, demolish them before my fiancé got home, and then pretend I wasn’t hungry for dinner. I would throw away the evidence and act like everything was fine. Sometimes, I paired it with Chinese takeout, scarfing it all down in a frenzy of emotional eating. The shame would hit hard afterward, but not hard enough to stop me. I was stuck in a vicious loop—eating because I felt depressed, and then feeling more depressed because I was eating and gaining weight.
I began hiding not just the candy, but myself. I avoided mirrors, avoided intimacy, avoided the truth. I knew I was spiraling. At my worst, I weighed 250 lbs, and I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I was afraid of my own reflection—and of what my addiction might eventually cost me.
My health started to scare me. I went to the doctor for bloodwork, fearing diabetes, which ran in my family. I was borderline pre-diabetic. That terrified me. I tried the Paleo diet, and to my shock, it worked. I lost 80 lbs in a year. I thought I had beaten my sugar addiction. But I hadn’t.
By 2017, I was sugar-free for seven months. That was a huge deal for me—seven months without giving in to cravings, without bingeing, without using sugar to numb my feelings. I felt proud, empowered even. So when my sister’s wedding rolled around, I thought I could handle a single indulgence. One brownie. Just one. A reward for how far I had come.
The moment I took a bite, I felt the flood of emotion and nostalgia rush in. The sweetness hit me like a wave—overwhelming and all too familiar. I hadn’t tasted anything that rich in so long, it was like my taste buds lit up and my brain screamed, “MORE!” I didn’t even finish the whole thing, but it was enough to trigger something deep in me. It awakened the addict part of my brain that I thought I had silenced.
Over the next few days, the cravings grew louder. I tried to resist. I reminded myself how good it felt to be free from sugar. But the memory of that brownie lingered like a siren call. I gave in. Then I gave in again. And before long, I was bingeing like I used to—hiding wrappers, sneaking bites, spiraling into shame. That one brownie felt like it undid months of hard work, and I was devastated.
In 2018, I went on a Hawaii cruise, already feeling guilty for regaining weight. I overindulged the entire trip, convincing myself that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I should just enjoy it. But deep down, I was ashamed. I was already disappointed in my body, in my lack of control, and in the role sugar was still playing in my life. Shortly after that trip, I found out I was pregnant with my first child.
At first, I was ecstatic. I wanted to be the best mom, and I imagined having a glowing, healthy pregnancy. But that vision was quickly overtaken by intense cravings and fatigue. Pregnancy amplified everything—my need for comfort, my anxiety, my hormones. I ballooned to 255 lbs. It felt like I had no willpower. I was eating to soothe myself through every emotion: fear, joy, stress, overwhelm.
My dream of a peaceful home birth was shattered when I developed high blood pressure near the end of my pregnancy. I felt like I had failed before I even started. And motherhood? It hit me like a freight train. I tried to breastfeed, work, and survive on almost no sleep. I felt like I was drowning. Sugar became my anchor—even though it was dragging me down. I stashed candy in drawers, snacked during every feeding, and constantly felt like I was just barely holding it together.
I remember crying because I felt like I was missing out on precious moments with my baby. Everything felt like a blur. Instead of soaking in the early days of motherhood, I was lost in a fog of cravings, exhaustion, and guilt. I wanted to be present. I wanted to remember it all. But sugar had such a grip on me that I could barely catch my breath.
Liam was a whirlwind of energy, always moving, never sitting still. Even as a toddler, he was unlike other kids I saw around us—he was climbing furniture, running in circles, and flipping himself into somersaults when others were calmly walking. It wasn’t until we started taking him to social events or out in public that the contrast became painfully clear. While other kids followed instructions or stayed close to their parents, Liam would dart off, touch everything, and completely ignore me when I called his name. I felt judged. I felt like I was doing something wrong as a mom.
The turning point came in 2024 when Liam was diagnosed with severe ADHD. Hearing the words gave me a mix of relief and grief. Relief because finally, there was an explanation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t just a “bad parent.” And grief because I realized just how much Liam had been struggling—how often his needs went misunderstood, even by me.
What made it even more complex was his perfectionism. He wouldn’t try things unless he thought he could master them. He delayed talking, reading, even walking, not because he couldn’t—but because he didn’t want to do it wrong. And then when he did start? He soared. It was like watching a light switch flip on. He went from speaking a few words to full sentences overnight, and later, from not knowing his letter sounds to reading simple books by the end of kindergarten.
Still, the emotional toll was heavy. His unpredictable energy, the defiance, the meltdowns—it drained me. And when I felt drained, I reached for sugar. That became my coping mechanism, my escape, my fuel when I was running on empty. But the guilt was overwhelming. I wanted to be fully present for Liam. I wanted to understand and guide him, not just survive him. But surviving is exactly what I was doing, one day at a time, using food to numb the chaos I didn’t know how to manage.
After everything I went through with my first pregnancy and early motherhood, I knew I wanted things to be different the second time around. I was determined not to fall into the same patterns. I had learned so much—about myself, my triggers, my body, and my emotional limits—and I made a conscious decision to do better for myself and my growing baby.
This time, I stayed active. I stuck to a workout routine, even if it meant just stretching, dancing, or doing a short Barre workout while my toddler played nearby. I still had cravings—because let’s be real, pregnancy does that—but I didn’t let them take over. I was more aware. More intentional. I didn’t want to lose myself again.
My second child, Ashlyn, was born after a much healthier pregnancy. I felt stronger. And while the newborn stage still came with its own chaos, I didn’t spiral into binge eating the way I had before. I held onto the habits I had formed. I gave myself grace but also structure. And that mindset shift made all the difference. I wasn’t perfect, but I was grounded—and that was new for me.—
I decided to take a stand for my health. It wasn’t a single moment of inspiration—it was more like a quiet resolve that built up over time. The chaos of two young kids, work demands, and the constant cycle of sugar highs and crashes had taken their toll. But when Liam started kindergarten, something shifted. With him at school during the day and Ashlyn being more mellow and manageable, I finally had some breathing room.
For the first time in what felt like years, I had space to think. To notice how exhausted and disconnected I felt. I wasn’t just physically tired—I was emotionally drained. My body hurt, my clothes didn’t fit, and my mind was constantly racing with guilt, shame, and the pressure to do better. I realized I had been in survival mode for far too long.
So I started slow. I went for walks. I made meals that didn’t come in wrappers. I danced again. I remembered how it felt to enjoy movement, not use it as punishment. I didn’t overhaul everything overnight, but I began making one mindful choice at a time. I stopped waiting for motivation and just started taking small, loving actions for myself.
Since then, I’ve lost 25 lbs. But more importantly, I’ve found myself again. I’m still on my journey, still learning how to care for my body and mind, but I finally believe I’m worth the effort. That, for me, was the real turning point.
Mindful Presence: I remind myself to be present, especially with my kids. Instead of turning to sugar for comfort, I focus on cherishing those fleeting moments with them.
Awareness of Triggers: I’ve learned to recognize my triggers—stress, exhaustion, loneliness—and I’m better at catching them before they lead to bingeing.
Healthier Substitutes: I’ve replaced sugary snacks with healthier options I genuinely enjoy, like fresh fruit, yogurt, or nuts.
Self-Compassion: When I slip up, I remind myself that I’m human. I don’t spiral into guilt anymore.
If you’re struggling with sugar addiction, please know you’re not alone. It’s not just about willpower—it’s about understanding yourself, your triggers, and finding healthy ways to cope.
Last night, I had one of those moments—the kind that used to completely unravel me. I was tired. I’d eaten more than I wanted to that day. My body felt uncomfortable and full of that familiar guilt I know too well. But it wasn’t just about food—I’d been carrying a lot emotionally too. I’d uncovered deep truths about myself, about my past, about patterns I’ve lived in for years. It was heavy.
And in the middle of all that, the thought showed up: fruit snacks. That quiet, almost automatic whisper—“Just eat them. You already messed up today anyway.”
And for years, I’ve listened to that voice. I’ve turned to food when things felt too big. Not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know how else to self-soothe. Not because I didn’t care, but because it felt like the only comfort I had. And I hated that. I hated how fast I could go from tired and overwhelmed to numbing myself with sugar. It always felt like a betrayal—to my body, to my goals, to the version of me that I’m trying to become.
The Pattern I’m Breaking
Usually, the story in my head goes something like this:
“You’ve already messed up today.” “You’re uncomfortable anyway, what’s one more thing?” “Just eat the fruit snacks. You’ll feel better.”
And maybe I would—for about three minutes. But then came the spiral: regret, shame, more guilt, more discomfort. The food was never the problem. It was the way I was using it to disconnect from myself.
What I’m learning is that the urge to eat like that—fast, disconnected, reactive—isn’t about weakness. It’s a trauma response. It’s survival-mode. It’s my body trying to rescue me from emotional overwhelm the only way it knew how.
Last Night Was Different
But something shifted in me last night.
I noticed the thought. I paused. I breathed. And I said, “No. Not this time.”
Not out of punishment. Not out of willpower. But because I finally felt strong enough to sit in the discomfort. To stay connected to myself instead of abandoning her again.
I reminded myself that I was safe, even in the mess. That I could feel full and emotionally raw and still not need to numb it. I let the craving rise and fall. I told the voice in my head, “I hear you. But I’m choosing me instead.”
And it passed.
It Wasn’t About the Fruit Snacks
It was about the story behind them.
It was about the part of me that always believed comfort only comes in a package. The part of me that thought I had to numb my feelings to survive. The part of me that was trained to self-abandon the moment things got hard.
But that part of me isn’t running the show anymore. Last night wasn’t just about saying no to fruit snacks. It was about saying yes to me.
To the woman who is learning to stay. To the woman who no longer needs to prove anything through perfection. To the woman who can feel big feelings without reaching for something to quiet them. To the woman who is healing.
And that small win? It was huge. Because it reminded me that I am not powerless. I am not broken. I am not owned by my cravings or my past.
I am learning to love myself not just when I get it all right, but especially when I don’t. And that, right there, is where real transformation begins.
Yesterday, I had a really healthy day with food. I felt proud of myself. Then, later that night, I was in bed eating some fruit when I accidentally knocked my phone onto the floor. I leaned over to grab it, and that’s when I saw them—an opened bag of crackers I had binged on back on Easter. I had completely forgotten about them until that moment.
And just like that, everything shifted.
I got back into bed, but suddenly I felt hungry—almost uncomfortably so. The excuses started rushing in, like a familiar chorus: You already messed up before, just finish the bag. It’s just this once. You’re probably actually hungry. I didn’t fight them for long. I gave in. And afterward, I felt that deep, heavy guilt. I even woke up in the middle of the night, just kicking myself.
But somewhere between shame and exhaustion, I had a realization: I’ve been doing a good job holding boundaries with others, but I haven’t been holding any with myself.
That moment wasn’t just about crackers—it was about self-trust. It showed me how quickly my brain can fall back into old patterns when I don’t have clear, compassionate boundaries to support me. Not rules. Not restrictions. Just loving guardrails that help me feel safe.
So I’ve decided to start small, with two gentle boundaries that feel right for me right now:
1. No Eating After 8 PM Evenings are when I tend to feel the most vulnerable. I’m tired, emotionally worn, and more likely to confuse other needs—like comfort, rest, or distraction—for hunger. My boundary: I stop eating after 8 p.m. If an urge comes up, I check in with myself: What am I really needing right now?
2. Anchor Phrase for Urges When those sneaky justifications start whispering in my ear, I need a way to interrupt the script. My boundary: When I feel an urge, I pause and say: “This isn’t about hunger—it’s about something else. Let me check in.”
These boundaries aren’t meant to trap me—they’re meant to hold me.
If you’re on a healing journey too, maybe ask yourself: What boundaries am I holding for others that I haven’t yet learned to hold for myself? And what would it look like to offer yourself the same structure and care?
We deserve that kind of self-respect. We really do.
Growing up, I struggled a lot with my weight. After puberty, I started to gain and was thrown headfirst into diet culture. I still remember being barely thirteen and already obsessed with losing fat—desperate to get back to a body I didn’t even realize I was supposed to miss. That’s when binge eating began.
The beginning of my obsession with food didn’t start with a craving—it started with shame.
Feeling constantly deprived, I’d start hiding food in my closet like a squirrel storing nuts for winter. Frozen Cool Whip, melted ice cream, candy—anything I could stash. It was like my body said, “You’ve starved me long enough. Let me take over.” And I let it. Over time, the binges weren’t a choice—they became automatic. I’d lose control, binge, gain weight, feel ashamed, then restrict again. Over and over. I thought about food nonstop—how to avoid it, how to control it, or how to reward myself with it.
I wasn’t just hiding snacks—I was hiding pain, shame, and the feeling that I’d lost control.
By 17, I was regularly binging on entire bags of Cheetos, family-sized Twizzlers, and trays of cheesecake. I felt helpless. My weight fluctuated all through high school, peaking at 190 lbs. I had always imagined being at a healthy weight by graduation, and instead, I was more uncomfortable in my skin than ever.
By 2012, I’d lost some weight and was down to 160 lbs. That’s when I met my husband. We moved into my sister’s basement for a while, which didn’t have a kitchen, so we ate out constantly—usually greasy, comforting fast food. It became our routine: work, dinner, TV. Even after we got our own place, we kept up the habit.
Planning our wedding should’ve been one of the happiest times of my life, but I was deeply depressed. I had gained nearly 100 lbs in two years, topping out at 250 lbs. I felt ashamed and stuck. But I moved forward and got married at that weight—miserable inside. I had horrible reflux, intense anxiety, and this overwhelming sense that I’d let everything get out of control.
I got married at 250 lbs. I wore the dress, said the vows, and carried the shame. But I also showed up—and that matters too.
Everything shifted in 2016 when my doctor warned I was on the verge of prediabetes. That scared me. With diabetes in my family history, I knew I had to change. I started walking daily, eating more intentionally, and discovered intermittent fasting. The 16:8 method worked wonders for me—I lost weight, felt amazing, and by 2017, I was down to 170 lbs when we bought our first home.
She’s been through a lot—but she keeps walking.
But my old habits weren’t gone. I’d still slip into binge patterns when life got stressful, but fasting helped me get back on track. For a while, I maintained. Then, after a cruise in late 2018 (where I gained 10 lbs), I found out I was pregnant.
I was excited—and scared. I hadn’t reached my goal weight, but the timing felt right. I dreamed of a natural birth and started working with a birth center. Things went well until month eight, when my blood pressure climbed. No matter what I tried, it stayed high—likely from my weight, which had crept back up to 255 lbs. When my midwife told me I could no longer birth at the center, I broke down in tears. Once again, my weight felt like it had stolen something from me.
But on August 24, 2019, my son Liam was born. I didn’t lose 50 lbs overnight like I hoped, but nothing else mattered in that moment—I just wanted to be healthy for him.
Exhausted. Overwhelmed. In love. Nursing Liam for the first time and feeling everything all at once.
The months that followed were some of the hardest of my life.
Liam hated sleep. He only calmed while nursing. He had constant gas and cried endlessly. I was working full-time from home and had to return to work the very next day. I was recovering from birth, glued to the couch with a fussy newborn on my boob, answering emails and phone calls—and I was unraveling. Food became my only comfort. I snacked constantly—candy, chocolate, anything to survive the fog. I struggled with baby blues and felt completely trapped.
Sleep training Liam was pure hell. It took forever for him to learn how to fall asleep on his own. But eventually, he did—and with sleep came a sliver of normalcy. My hormones balanced out (finally), and by the time he was about a year and a half, I felt ready to focus on my health again.
I restarted intermittent fasting and began dancing—something I hadn’t done in years. I fell in love with dance workouts and even tried Barre. I got down to 170 lbs in 8 months and felt great.
Zoo day with Liam at 170 lbs. Strong. Happy. Grateful.
And that’s when I got pregnant with baby #2.
This time, I was thrilled to find out it was a girl. I was determined to take better care of myself during this pregnancy—and I did. I exercised, did prenatal Barre, and ate well (with the occasional binge, of course). I worked with a different midwife and avoided the emotional rollercoaster of trying to birth outside the hospital system. Things went much smoother.
Pregnant with baby #2 and hopeful to do things differently this time.
On April 1, 2022, Ashlyn was born. She was perfect—and the complete opposite of Liam. She slept like an angel (so much that I was worried at first!), and I didn’t even have to sleep train her. One night, I just laid her down, and she fell asleep. It felt like a miracle.
But even though Ashlyn was an easier baby, my hormones were still all over the place. I started snacking constantly again, using the excuse that I’d eaten so well during pregnancy. I went on a massive sugar binge right after labor—just me and Ashlyn in the hospital, no food in hours, and a whole bag of candy. That binge was hard to come back from. I wasn’t working out much either—life with two kids and a full-time job was a lot.
This photo holds everything—my weight, my weariness, and my why.
By early 2024, I was back up to 230 lbs. Hitting that number again felt crushing. I had worked so hard after both pregnancies, and here I was—right back where I swore I’d never be. I felt miserable in my body, and the heaviness wasn’t just physical—it weighed on my spirit too. I spiraled into another wave of depression, frustrated that no matter how hard I tried, a healthy weight seemed to keep slipping through my fingers. I wanted it so badly. I dreamed of feeling light, strong, and free in my body—but that dream felt just out of reach, like it always had.
Eventually, I lost a bit of that weight, getting down to 218 by the end of the year, but emotionally, I was still clawing my way out of a fog.
And that brings us to now.
I’m back into intermittent fasting. I’m walking more—aiming for at least 7,000 steps a day—and listening to my body. Some days I exceed that. Some days I rest. I’m working on intuitive eating, letting go of shame, and focusing on nourishment over numbers.
I’m down to 205 as of this writing. It’s slower than I’d like, but I’m learning to trust the process. More importantly, I’m finally addressing the root of it all: the binge eating.
205 today. Stronger than yesterday.
And there’s one more piece of this journey that’s changed everything…
Liam was diagnosed with ADHD. Suddenly, those early struggles—the sleepless nights, nonstop movement, the intense emotions—they all made sense. Parenting a child with ADHD has stretched me in ways I didn’t know were possible. It’s exhausting, beautiful, overwhelming, and sacred all at once.
Stylish. Spirited. Strong-willed. That’s Liam.
There are days I’m overstimulated, touched out, and on the edge—and that’s when the binge urges come back strongest. But now, I’m starting to recognize that what I need isn’t food. It’s a pause. A breath. A moment of self-compassion.
Liam has taught me more about resilience than any diet ever could. And in many ways, this healing journey? It’s not just mine—it’s ours.
chaosandcarrots.blog 