The term “diet” often makes me feel like I’m trying to squeeze my curves into a mold that was never designed for me. My body isn’t meant to be 100 pounds, a size two, or survive solely on greens. Through the years, as I found love and welcomed children, the weight I carried shifted from “happy fat,” a sign of love and motherhood, to a reflection I no longer recognized. I began to view my thighs as too thick, my belly as too soft, and my rear as overly ample. The negative thoughts swirled, leading me to jump from one diet to another.
Growing up, my Southern grandparents prepared hearty Sunday dinners, each meal infused with love. Dessert was often my grandfather’s homemade cinnamon swirl cake topped with vanilla frosting, paired with a new flavor of Breyer’s ice cream. My connection to food was rooted in love—who prepared it, who shared it with me—and healthiness was a mere afterthought. Meals were a cherished family ritual, and snacks were my comfort.
After the birth of my twin daughters, I found myself cooking more during maternity leave, fulfilling my dream of making their first solid foods from scratch instead of opting for store-bought options. I wanted them to embrace organic and nutritious foods, inadvertently setting high expectations for myself to eat better. Feeling the pressure to succeed in this endeavor, I turned to the Whole30 diet, hoping to shed some pounds. However, when the scale didn’t budge, I quit halfway through, ignoring the voice within that suggested I didn’t need a diet.
Next, I discovered the Keto Diet, which promoted high-fat eating to encourage fat burning. Initially, it seemed like the solution I had been searching for—I lost five pounds easily and felt a sense of accomplishment. But then, it became restrictive. When my wife’s birthday arrived, I found myself yearning for a slice of traditional cake instead of the Keto version I made, which was met with disappointment.
As the holidays approached, I granted myself a break from dieting, telling myself, “You only live once.” I enjoyed rice, curry, and holiday treats, abandoning Keto for a while. Eventually, I grew disinterested in following any diet. Perhaps it was the pandemic or the realization that cooking all my meals at home revealed something profound: the pressure I placed on myself to conform to someone else’s eating plan wasn’t achieving what I truly desired. No diet, food plan, or accountability partner could provide the liberation I needed. I owed it to myself to redefine what eating could mean for me.
I started giving myself permission to savor the homemade bread I had perfected during the lockdown. This bread emerged from countless attempts to find yeast and flour in empty grocery aisles, until I mastered the no-knead Mark Bittman loaf. Baking became therapeutic for me, a fulfilling process that cost less than $5 a session, reminding me that I could enjoy food freely. I began building a healthier relationship with food, one loaf at a time.
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Summary:
In this reflective journey, the author shares how embracing the freedom to enjoy food transformed their relationship with it. After years of dieting and grappling with self-image, they discovered that true satisfaction comes from allowing oneself to eat without restrictions. By finding joy in cooking and baking, particularly in perfecting homemade bread, they fostered a healthier connection to food, emphasizing love and enjoyment over strict dietary rules.
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