Stories about life, food, and becoming—with simple, satisfying recipes for real life.

🥕Carrots

Simple recipes, mindful eating, and nourishing habits that make healthy living feel joyful—not perfect.

  • When a Weight-Loss Goal Quietly Became a Deadline

    When a Weight-Loss Goal Quietly Became a Deadline

    A few days ago, I did some math.

    Which is always dangerous when weight loss is involved.

    We’re planning to start trying for another baby in a few months, and naturally, I’ve been thinking about my weight.

    I’d like to lose more before I get pregnant.

    So my brain did what brains do when you give them a goal and a timeline.

    Okay. If I lose about five pounds a month…

    I started calculating.

    And I realized I could potentially get down to around 170 pounds by the time we start trying.

    170.

    That sounded good.

    Really good.

    And apparently somewhere between doing that math and continuing on with my life, 170 stopped being a possibility.

    It became a deadline.

    I didn’t consciously decide that.

    I didn’t write:

    MUST WEIGH 170 BEFORE GETTING PREGNANT

    on my bathroom mirror.

    I didn’t start some extreme diet.

    Nothing changed dramatically.

    It was much quieter than that.

    I just started thinking:

    How can I lose weight faster?

    And then little things started happening.

    I’d recently stopped having an afternoon snack.

    Lunch to dinner.

    I can make it.

    I’m not that hungry.

    I don’t really need a snack.

    Totally reasonable.

    I also realized I’d basically stopped drinking water in the afternoons.

    At the same time, I’d recently started doing Pilates twice a week.

    And I’m in my luteal phase.

    Then suddenly…

    I was fucking hungry.

    Especially at night.

    I started eating more in the evenings.

    I started having cravings again.

    And my first instinct was to look at the nighttime eating.

    Because obviously that’s the problem, right?

    Why am I suddenly eating more at night?

    Why am I having cravings again?

    How do I stop doing this?

    Except then I started looking at what was happening earlier in the day.

    And I thought:

    Oh.

    Maybe nighttime isn’t actually where this starts.

    Maybe trying to make it from lunch to dinner without eating has something to do with being really hungry later.

    Groundbreaking stuff over here.

    Now, I don’t actually know exactly what’s causing the increased hunger.

    Maybe skipping the afternoon snack is contributing.

    Maybe Pilates has increased my appetite.

    Maybe being in my luteal phase is part of it.

    Maybe I’m thirsty.

    Maybe it’s several things happening at once.

    I don’t know.

    But I do know something else.

    The pressure had started changing my behavior.

    That’s the part that got my attention.

    I wasn’t walking around thinking:

    I need to restrict my food.

    I wasn’t consciously starving myself.

    It sounded much more innocent inside my head.

    I don’t need an afternoon snack.

    I can wait until dinner.

    How can I lose weight a little faster?

    And individually, none of those thoughts seemed particularly alarming.

    But when I zoomed out, I could see what was happening.

    I’d given myself a deadline.

    I had a few months.

    I wanted to get as much weight off as possible.

    And suddenly every opportunity to eat a little less became an opportunity to get closer to 170.

    That’s restriction too, isn’t it?

    Or at least it can be.

    Maybe restriction doesn’t always announce itself with a meal plan and a list of forbidden foods.

    Maybe sometimes it sneaks in wearing a very reasonable outfit.

    You can wait.

    You don’t really need that.

    You’re trying to lose weight, remember?

    And this is where the whole thing started bothering me.

    Because food has finally gotten quieter for me.

    Really quiet.

    I’ve stopped starving myself.

    I eat breakfast.

    Lunch.

    Dinner.

    I feed myself.

    And somehow, after spending so much of my life believing I needed more control around food, I’ve started trusting myself around it.

    That feels huge.

    And now here I was potentially messing with that peace because I had decided I should weigh 170 pounds by a certain date.

    No.

    I don’t want that.

    I want to lose weight.

    That’s still true.

    I’d love to go into another pregnancy at a lower weight.

    Also true.

    And if someone offered me a magical button right now that safely dropped me to 170 pounds, I would not nobly decline it in the name of personal growth.

    I would smash that thing.

    Repeatedly.

    I’m not pretending I suddenly don’t care about weight loss.

    I do.

    That’s what makes this complicated.

    But I think I’m starting to care about something else more.

    The relationship with food I’ve been building.

    The trust.

    The quiet.

    The ability to eat when I’m hungry without immediately wondering whether I should have been able to go longer.

    I don’t want to sacrifice all of that just so I can squeeze as much weight loss as possible into the next few months.

    And that realization made me think I might stop weighing myself for now.

    Not because I think the scale is evil.

    Not because I’ve transcended caring what I weigh.

    Clearly I have not.

    But because I know myself.

    If I keep watching that number while there’s a countdown running in the background, I know how easily I’ll start doing the math.

    If I lose this much this week…

    If I lose five pounds this month…

    If I can just get to…

    And suddenly I’m not taking care of myself anymore.

    I’m managing myself toward a deadline.

    Even deciding not to weigh myself has this sneaky little trap in it.

    Because I could easily say:

    Fine. 170 doesn’t matter.

    I’ll stop weighing myself.

    But hopefully I can still lose ten pounds before we start trying.

    Nice try.

    That’s just 170 wearing a fake mustache.

    It’s the same assignment.

    The same pressure.

    The same countdown.

    And I don’t want to replace one secret goal with another one and pretend I’ve let go.

    So I’ve been trying to ask myself a different question.

    Instead of:

    I have a few months before we start trying to conceive. How much weight can I lose?

    What if it’s:

    I have a few months before we start trying to conceive. How well can I take care of myself?

    That feels completely different.

    Can I keep doing Pilates?

    Can I walk?

    Can I drink some damn water in the afternoon?

    Can I eat a snack when I’m hungry instead of congratulating myself for making it to dinner?

    Can I arrive at trying to conceive still trusting myself around food?

    And if I lose weight while I’m doing that?

    Great.

    Seriously.

    I hope I do.

    But maybe the number doesn’t get to be the assignment anymore.

    Because I’ve spent a lot of time getting to this weirdly peaceful place where food is becoming…

    food.

    Not a moral test.

    Not an escape.

    Not something I need to earn.

    Not something I need to spend all day trying not to eat.

    Just food.

    And I don’t want to trade that for 170.

    Even writing that feels strange.

    Because part of me still really, really wants 170.

    Both things can apparently be true.

    I want to lose weight before getting pregnant.

    And I don’t want wanting to lose weight before getting pregnant to become more important than taking care of the person who’s actually going to be pregnant.

    I also can’t say the pressure or the missing afternoon snack caused the increased hunger and cravings.

    Bodies are more complicated than that.

    But I don’t actually need to prove causation to recognize a pattern in myself that I don’t like.

    How can I lose weight faster?

    That’s the thought I want to pay attention to.

    Not because wanting to lose weight is wrong.

    But because I know how easily, for me, wanting it faster can turn into something else.

    So I have no idea what I’ll weigh when we start trying.

    Part of me really hates that sentence.

    She would like a spreadsheet.

    A projection.

    Preferably a graph.

    She would like to know exactly where we’re going to land.

    But maybe she doesn’t get to know this time.

    Maybe these next few months aren’t about arriving at the lowest possible weight.

    Maybe they’re about arriving there still trusting myself.

    And right now, that feels like something worth protecting.

  • I Thought I Was Becoming the Old Me Again

    I Thought I Was Becoming the Old Me Again

    Last weekend, I got high and ate a lot of Cheetos.

    Like.

    A lot of Cheetos.

    Which is not exactly how I planned to start this story, but here we are.

    I haven’t eaten like that in a long time.

    And then the next day, I finished the rest of the bag.

    So that was fun.

    A few days later, my husband took me out to lunch.

    Normally, I probably would have looked through the menu for something a little healthier. Not necessarily because I was forcing myself to eat healthy, but because that’s genuinely how I eat most of the time now.

    But I wanted a burger.

    And sweet potato fries.

    So I ordered a burger and sweet potato fries.

    I ate them.

    They were delicious.

    I stopped before I got really full.

    And then I ate normally for the rest of the day.

    Nothing particularly interesting happened.

    Which, I’m realizing, is actually kind of the point.

    Then my friend came over.

    We played games. We watched three movies. We got tacos from a restaurant.

    Later, I ate some frozen berries.

    And at some point during all of this, I went upstairs to put my kids’ candy away.

    I asked my friend if she wanted some before I put it away.

    She said yes.

    So apparently my brain interpreted that as:

    Great. Candy for everyone.

    And I grabbed a bunch for myself too.

    Not a couple pieces.

    A bunch.

    I brought it downstairs, sat on the couch, and ate all of it while we watched the movie.

    And afterward?

    I felt like shit.

    Not emotionally.

    Physically.

    My stomach didn’t feel good. My body didn’t feel good. And I remember having this very anticlimactic realization:

    Oh yeah.

    This is why I don’t really eat candy anymore.

    It wasn’t some virtuous health realization.

    It just didn’t feel good.

    And then it messed with my sleep.

    Which gave me plenty of time to lie awake and turn the whole thing into something much bigger.

    Because apparently 2 a.m. is an excellent time for a personal investigation.

    Why did you do that?

    Are you going back to your old patterns?

    What if this is the beginning of slipping backward?

    And my brain had receipts.

    There had been the Cheetos.

    Then more Cheetos.

    The burger and fries.

    Tacos.

    Candy.

    It had been several days of eating more restaurant food, snack food, and “junk food” than is normal for me.

    And suddenly it wasn’t just candy anymore.

    It was evidence.

    Maybe I was slipping.

    Maybe those old patterns weren’t as far behind me as I’d thought.

    Maybe this was how it started.

    And for a little while, I was genuinely scared.

    Because I remember the old version of me.

    She could turn one night of overeating into an entire event.

    There would be guilt.

    There would be calculations.

    There would probably be some kind of plan for the next day.

    Eat less.

    Skip something.

    Make up for it.

    Get back under control.

    Or—and this was always a fun alternative—I could go completely the other direction.

    Well, I already screwed up.

    Might as well keep going.

    I’ll start again tomorrow.

    Or Monday.

    Obviously Monday.

    One night could spill into the next day because I’d already blown it anyway.

    Eating “badly” became evidence that I was failing.

    And once I’d failed, there was this weird permission to keep failing.

    Until eventually I felt shitty enough that I needed to regain control again.

    And then we’d start the whole thing over.

    So lying there that night, worrying that maybe I was becoming that version of myself again, I started thinking about what I was going to do the next day.

    And that’s when something didn’t quite fit.

    Because I already knew what I was going to do.

    Nothing.

    Literally nothing.

    I wasn’t going to skip breakfast.

    I wasn’t going to have some sad tiny lunch to compensate for the candy.

    I wasn’t going to calculate how many calories I needed to undo.

    I wasn’t going to swear off sugar.

    And I also wasn’t thinking:

    Well, I’ve been eating like shit lately anyway, so screw it.

    I was just going to…

    eat normally.

    Breakfast when I was hungry.

    Lunch.

    Dinner.

    Whatever I normally would have eaten.

    And that realization kind of stopped me.

    Because here I was lying in bed worried that I was slipping back into my old relationship with food…

    while responding to overeating in a way the old me probably couldn’t have imagined.

    I still trusted myself.

    That surprised me.

    Because somewhere in my head, I think I’d created this idea that having a better relationship with food would eventually mean I wouldn’t do things like this anymore.

    I wouldn’t overeat.

    I wouldn’t eat past the point that felt good.

    I wouldn’t worry about gaining weight afterward.

    But apparently that’s not where I am.

    I ate more than felt good.

    I regretted it.

    I had anxiety afterward.

    None of that magically disappeared.

    But something underneath it had changed.

    I could regret how I’d eaten without turning that regret into punishment.

    I could worry about gaining weight without obeying that fear the next morning.

    I could have several days where I ate differently than I normally do without deciding that this was my life now.

    And maybe that’s actually a much bigger deal than never overeating at all.

    Because if my peace with food depends on me always eating exactly the “right” amount…

    that’s not much peace.

    That’s pretty fucking fragile.

    If one bag of Cheetos and a pile of candy can destroy it, then I haven’t really built anything new.

    I’ve just created another set of conditions I have to follow.

    Maybe the fact that things got a little messy and the trust was still there tells me more than several perfect weeks ever could.

    Because maybe becoming someone new doesn’t mean the old behavior becomes impossible.

    Maybe it means the old behavior doesn’t have the same power anymore.

    I can do something the old me would have done without becoming the old me again.

    Which is especially interesting timing because we’re going to Disneyland later this month.

    And after this happened, I’ll admit, that made me nervous.

    Disneyland is not exactly known for its abundance of sensible little salads.

    There will be restaurant meals.

    Snacks.

    Desserts.

    Things shaped like Mickey Mouse that I will undoubtedly believe taste better because they are shaped like Mickey Mouse.

    And for a minute, I wondered:

    What if I can’t trust myself there?

    But then I realized this whole experience might actually be evidence that I can.

    Not because I’m going to Disneyland planning to eat perfectly.

    I’m not.

    I want to eat things that sound good.

    I want to enjoy the things that are actually worth enjoying.

    And mostly, I just want to eat like I normally do—except I’ll be at Disneyland.

    I might eat too much one night.

    I might have a dessert that wasn’t remotely worth it.

    I might eat something just because everyone else is eating it.

    Apparently that’s allowed too.

    Because now I know what happens the next morning.

    I eat breakfast.

    That’s it.

    And somehow, that feels enormous.

    Because maybe I’ve been looking for evidence of change in the wrong place.

    Maybe the evidence isn’t that I never do something the old me would have done.

    Maybe it’s what happens afterward.

    The old version of me would either punish herself for yesterday or use yesterday as an excuse to keep going.

    I don’t have to do either anymore.

    I can do something the old me would have done without following her all the way down the road.

    One night can just be one night.

    And maybe I trust myself enough to know that tomorrow…

    I’ll just eat breakfast.

  • How I Made It Through Thanksgiving Without Bingeing for the First Time

    Lately, I’ve been really intentional about stepping away from weight loss as a goal. Not because I don’t want to lose weight eventually… but because I finally understand something huge:

    If I don’t rewire my brain first, any weight I lose will just come right back.

    My brain has been wired since childhood to use food for comfort. Full stop. End of story. And until I address that, I can diet all I want, but nothing will change long-term.

    So right now, I’m focusing on two things:

    Consistency
    and
    Mindful eating.

    These are the two areas I’ve struggled with the most—especially when life gets chaotic.

    Thanksgiving Was the Test… and My Brain Wanted Comfort Food SO Badly

    Thanksgiving break last week was rough in all the ways that usually send me spiraling:

    • Family gatherings
    • Cooking and planning
    • Hosting friends
    • Kids home all day
    • Sensory overload
    • Stress
    • Noise
    • Emotional tension

    And, of course, a big one: my husband and I weren’t getting along.

    In the past, any one of these things would have been enough to push me straight into a binge.

    But this year, I made myself a promise:

    No matter what happens, stay consistent with mindful eating.
    Not perfect. Not restrictive. Just consistent.

    Because here’s the truth:
    Food doesn’t solve any of those problems.
    Not the stress.
    Not the overwhelm.
    Not the noise.
    Not the fighting.
    Not the exhaustion.

    If anything, it makes everything worse because afterward comes the anxiety, the guilt, the bloating, and the crash.

    So This Year, I Did Something Different

    Even through all the chaos, I slowed down.

    I listened to my body.

    I ate when I was hungry.

    I stopped when I was satisfied — not stuffed.

    I even did that at the Thanksgiving meal.
    No seconds.
    No rushing.
    And yes, I had pie.

    But I actually enjoyed the pie. I savored it without guilt, without fear, without using it as a shield to block out my feelings.

    And the most shocking part?

    I didn’t binge even once.

    I truly don’t think that has ever happened to me on a holiday. Maybe not since I was little.

    Rewiring My Brain, One Thought at a Time

    The real work wasn’t the eating — it was the thinking.

    There were moments where my thoughts said:

    “Just eat the leftover pie. It’s in the fridge.”

    Old me would’ve either fought the thought using willpower (and lost)…
    or obeyed it instantly.

    But this time, I watched it.

    I didn’t argue with it.
    I didn’t shame it.
    I didn’t cling to it.
    I just observed:

    Do I actually want pie right now?

    And the answer was an immediate, solid no.

    So I had a coconut bar instead — something that tastes amazing to me, satisfies me, and doesn’t make my blood sugar crash or leave me bloated like pie does.

    It wasn’t about choosing the “healthy” option.
    It was about choosing what I actually wanted.

    I’m Not Focusing on What I Eat — I’m Focusing on How and Why

    This is the foundation I never built before.

    This — the slowing down, the emotional awareness, the consistency, the self-trust — is the work that prevents binges.

    This is the work that heals.

    This is the work that allows the weight to release naturally later, without forcing it, without punishing myself, and without white-knuckling through cravings.

    Right now, I’m not counting calories.
    I’m not restricting.
    I’m not trying to be perfect.
    I’m not chasing a number on a scale.

    I’m fixing the fundamentals I’ve ignored for years.

    Because when my why is in the wrong place, my how will always follow.

    And that’s exactly why the binges happen.

    So this season of my life is about:

    ✨ Choosing consistency over perfection
    ✨ Eating mindfully, not mindlessly
    ✨ Listening to my body, not my stress
    ✨ Rewiring my brain with patience rather than force
    ✨ Being gentle but firm with myself
    ✨ Building trust again, one meal at a time

    And honestly?
    It feels like the first time I’m truly making progress.

  • Mindful Eating: A Gentle Path Back to Self

    Mindful Eating: Coming Home to Myself

    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.