Redefining Nourishment: What Feeding Myself Really Means

There was a time when nourishment meant grabbing something convenient. Fast food in the car. A late-night sweet tooth fix. Skipping meals out of stress—or eating out of boredom. I didn’t realize it then, but I was trying to feed something much deeper than hunger.

Now, nourishment means something entirely different. It’s no longer just about food—it’s about care. It’s how I speak to myself in quiet moments. Whether I offer myself grace when I mess up—or punishment. Whether I sit with my emotions—or try to outrun them. Whether I let myself rest—or push through exhaustion out of guilt.

As someone who is neurodivergent, my relationship with food has always been layered. I’ve struggled with emotional eating my whole life. My weight has fluctuated, reflecting the emotional tides beneath the surface. I either overeat to fill an aching void—or don’t eat at all because my brain is somewhere else entirely.

It can be frustrating, living with this kind of relationship to food. But I’m learning to see it differently now.

Some days, I crave something warm and grounding, like a hearty soup. Other days, it’s a grilled cheese sandwich filled with childhood nostalgia. Eating is becoming less about rules and more about listening—really listening—to how food makes me feel.

I’ve come to realize I feel most nourished when I eat slowly. When I allow myself to be present with my food instead of numbing out. When I cook something with care, not just for fuel—but as a form of healing. A form of intention.

I’ve always been a heavy coffee drinker, but lately, I’ve been trying to incorporate tea into my nightly routine. A soothing cup in the evening helps me wind down and reconnect.

I choose a blend based on how I feel. If I’m low or anxious, I reach for chamomile. If I’m content or celebratory, maybe a fruity peach or berry blend.

I hold the warm mug in my hands. I take slow sips. No screens. No multitasking. Just presence. It’s a reminder that I deserve slowness. That tending to myself, even in the smallest ways, makes all the difference.

Nourishment today also looks like:

• Turning off my phone and lying on the floor with a cozy blanket
• Crying without apologizing for it
• Listening to the same song on repeat because it makes me feel something
• Saying “no” when I want to. Saying “yes” when I mean it
• Reading a book that makes me feel seen

Redefining nourishment is a process. There’s no perfect way to do it. But every time I check in with myself—every time I pause and ask, “What do I really need right now?”—I soften a little more. I unlearn. I reconnect.

In that re-connection, I begin to heal. It’s not just my body that heals. It’s also the parts of me that went unfed for far too long.

“When you recover or discover something that nourishes your soul and brings joy, care enough about yourself to make room for it in your life.”

Jean Shinoda Bolen