The Way I Feed Myself Reflects the Way I Feel

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The way I feed myself is never just about hunger.  It’s a mirror of my emotions—what I’m holding, what I’m releasing, what I’m carrying throughout the day.  

When I feel Joy

When I feel light and joyful, I naturally gravitate toward healthier foods—things that feel vibrant, nourishing, and alive.  I’ll usually opt for a fresh salad: crisp romaine, roasted chickpeas, thinly sliced red onion, creamy avocado, tangy feta, and a generous drizzle of garlic-balsamic vinaigrette.  It’s simple, but it feels like sunshine in a bowl.

This salad isn’t just a healthy choice—it’s a tradition.  It’s a staple in my family.  One we serve at nearly every holiday gathering.  Christmas, Easter, birthdays—you name it, this salad is there, on the table like an old friend.  And honestly, it’s the best I’ve ever had.  The flavors are familiar, comforting, and tied to moments of laughter, celebration, and togetherness.

So, when I’m happy, when life feels just a little softer or brighter, I find myself craving it.  It’s a way of reflecting the joy I feel inside—light food for a light heart.  It becomes a small celebration, a way of honoring those good days with something that feels both nourishing and nostalgic.

When I feel Low 

But when I’m feeling low, I reach for comfort food.  A warm baked lasagna, a bowl of creamy tomato soup, or something sweet like a scoop of ice cream.  These aren’t just meals—they’re memories, emotions, and healing.  There’s something deeply grounding about comfort food—the way it wraps around you like a familiar blanket and speaks in a language your heart understands. 

For me, it’s never about escaping—it’s about acknowledging what I’m feeling and honoring it without judgment.  It’s a quiet kind of care.  When I’m low, comfort food becomes a bridge between where I am and the tenderness I need.  It doesn’t fix everything—but it helps me feel held, even just for a moment.

When I’m angry 

If I’m angry or frustrated, I tend to throw something together quickly.  I don’t want to think too much.  I’m too in my head and wound up to be thoughtful or creative.  I just want food to do its job—fill me up and move on.  Something simple, familiar, and effortless, like a frozen dinner or a boxed mac and cheese. 

It’s not about taste or presentation at that point.  It’s more about survival in the moment.  It’s food that says: I don’t have the energy right now, but I still need to eat.  It’s a small act of care tucked inside the mental clutter.  A way to meet my basic needs even when everything feels messy or out of control. 

When I’m anxious

When I’m anxious, I find myself nibbling. A little bite of this, a little bit of that—like a DIY charcuterie board. Crackers, nuts, cheese, fruit. It’s how I self-soothe. I think part of it is control. The variety comforts me. The small bites feel manageable when the rest of the world doesn’t.

And then there are the days that feel sacred—celebratory, intentional, full of love.

When I’m anxious, I find myself nibbling.  A little bite of this, a little bit of that—like a DIY charcuterie board made from whatever’s in the fridge or pantry.  Crackers, nuts, slices of cheese, a few berries or apple slices.  I don’t sit down for a full meal.  I graze.  I linger in the kitchen.  It’s how I self-soothe.  The motion of preparing the board, arranging things just so, brings a strange kind of peace.

I think part of it is control.  When my mind feels scattered and the world feels loud, having options in front of me, things I can choose, arrange, taste slowly, feels grounding.  The small bites are gentle.  They feel manageable when everything else doesn’t.

It’s not always about hunger.  Sometimes it’s about giving my hands something to do.  Sometimes it’s about calming my racing thoughts by focusing on textures, flavors, and color.  And in a way, it becomes a ritual—one that brings a little order to the chaos, a little comfort to the overwhelm. 

A Chicken Piccata Love Story

The other day was my mom’s birthday.  She has a lot of health issues, so I try to keep things simple for her, but I always want her to feel loved and seen.  One of the ways I do that is through food.  Her favorite dish that I make is Chicken Piccata.  And honestly? I love it too.  There’s something about the lemony, buttery sauce, the way it wraps around the chicken and clings to the capers, that just feels like comfort. 

I didn’t rush that day.  I moved slowly and with care—chopping the garlic just right, squeezing the lemons, making sure everything was seasoned perfectly.  I added more than just ingredients—I added love, intention, presence.

It wasn’t just dinner.  It was a thank-you.  A celebration.  A quiet way of saying, I love you and I’m here.

And I think that’s what food is for me.  It’s one of the ways I speak.  One of the ways I connect.  Feeding someone else is one of my love languages.  But it’s also how I care for myself.

Because feeding ourselves isn’t just about staying full.  It’s a form of communication.  A quiet language that says: this is how I feel today… this is how I’m caring for myself… this is how I want to feel again.

However you’re feeling today, may your next meal reflect the kindness you deserve.

“To feed oneself is to care for the soul with flavor, memory, and tenderness.”

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