The term “diet” constrains me, forcing my body, with its curves and softness, into a mold that was never meant for me. My natural state was never about weighing 100 pounds, fitting into a size two, or surviving solely on greens. Throughout my journey of love and motherhood, the extra weight I carried transitioned from “happy fat” — a sign of embracing love and creating life — into something much less fulfilling. I began to dislike the reflection staring back at me. My thighs felt too thick, my belly too soft, and my rear too prominent. The pressure I placed on myself led me to jump from one diet to another.
Growing up, mealtime was a cherished occasion spent around the table with my Southern grandparents, who prepared hearty Sunday dinners filled with love. Each meal usually ended with a homemade dessert from my grandfather, often a cinnamon swirl cake paired with a new flavor of Breyer’s ice cream. My connection to food was intertwined with love and family; it was about savoring moments together rather than merely focusing on health.
After giving birth to my twin daughters, I started to cook more during my maternity leave. I embraced the challenge of preparing their first solid foods, hoping to instill in them a love of organic and nutritious meals. However, I soon felt the weight of expectation to be successful in this endeavor, and I pressured myself to follow rigid dietary guidelines for their benefit.
Thinking I needed to conform to someone else’s plan, I embarked on the Whole30 diet, aiming to shed pounds. When I saw no results, I became disheartened and quit before completing the month. I ignored the inner voice telling me that dieting wasn’t necessary.
Next, I discovered the Keto Diet, which promoted high-fat consumption to encourage my body to burn fat first. Initially, I found success and lost five pounds, which thrilled me — until I wanted a slice of cake for my wife’s birthday. The Keto cake I made was a disappointment for all of us. Why should I have forced her to endure that on her special day?
As the holidays rolled around, I decided to give myself a break from dieting. I embraced the idea that “you only live once” and indulged in the festive meals and sweets that came with Christmas and Thanksgiving. Eventually, my interest in the Keto diet waned, possibly due to pandemic life or the reality that cooking all my meals at home revealed something important: the pressure I’d placed on myself to adhere to a specific eating plan was counterproductive. I discovered that no diet, food plan, or accountability partner could provide me the freedom I craved — that’s something I had to grant myself.
I finally allowed myself to enjoy the homemade bread I had perfected during those months of baking. This bread was born from countless attempts to find yeast and flour during shortages, and the process became therapeutic for me. For less than $5 per session, I learned that I only needed a few ingredients to achieve the liberation I had sought my whole life — the freedom to enjoy whatever I desired. This is how I started to build a healthier relationship with food, one loaf at a time.
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In summary, my journey toward embracing food has been about more than just nourishment; it’s been a path to self-acceptance and freedom. By letting go of rigid dieting rules and giving myself permission to enjoy food, I’ve cultivated a healthier relationship with what I eat.