Food

(An Epic Ballad of Biscuits, Bingeing and Bloody Brilliant Self-Awareness)

We love it.
We hate it.
We woo it with candles, we run from it like it’s Voldemort in a cheesecake.
We use it to celebrate birthdays, breakups, births, bar mitzvahs,
And the fact we got through Monday without swearing at Carol in accounts.

Food is joy.
Food is war.
Food is family, failure, culture, control.
It’s your nan’s apple crumble and your midnight shame session with a spoon and a tub of ice cream that was “meant for the kids.”

We overeat.
Then feel that delightful cocktail of guilt, regret, self-loathing and bloating.
Our jeans cut into our spleens and we whisper to ourselves,

“Tomorrow, I shall become a celery stick with legs.”

So we restrict.
We under-eat.
We google “how to lose 3 kilos by Friday.”
We become human spreadsheets counting macros,
Playing nutritional Sudoku with a side of cortisol.

We punish.
We “be good.”
We earn our food like it’s some sort of moral credit score.

But our bodies?
They’re not spreadsheets.
They’re brilliant, primal survival machines.

And the second they smell deprivation—
Real or imagined—
They go full apocalypse mode.

“Alert the pancreas! Raise the cortisol! She’s cutting carbs again!”

And suddenly you're standing in your pantry, eyes glazed,
Like a raccoon in activewear,
Fist-deep in a box of cereal you don’t even like.

And you think:

“Why can’t I stop?”

Because ironically, the more we try to control food…
The more it starts to control us.

But here’s the twist:
Food doesn’t actually care.
It’s just sitting there…
Silently.
Calmly.
Minding its own beige, buttery business.

Until—
You have a thought.

“I want that.”
“That looks amazing.”
“I’ve been so good.”
“What if this is my only chance before I start again on Monday?”
“I don’t know when I’ll get this again.”
“I deserve it.” (oh hello, old friend)

And BAM—
That one tiny thought unleashes a tsunami of desire.
It’s not the cookie’s fault.
It’s the meaning you’ve stitched into it like some tragic Shakespearean subplot.

Because, spoiler alert:
You’re not actually hungry for food.

You’re hungry for…
Time.
Rest.
Escape.
A nap, a hug, some bloody quiet.
To feel less alone.
To feel seen.
To feel safe.

You’re eating to mute the world when it’s too loud,
To soften the edges of a brain that’s fried and frayed,
To plug the hole where your sanity used to be before the toddler started throwing grapes at the dog.

You eat when you’re tired.
When you’re anxious.
When you’re procrastinating on that email you’ve opened seventeen times but still haven’t answered.

Sound familiar?

Let’s be real—you’re not broken.
You’re not weak.
You’re not a hopeless case destined to live your life trapped in an endless cycle of rice cakes and regret.

You’re just trying to feed a hunger that food was never designed to satisfy.

And Now for the Twist

Trying to “just stop eating”
Without knowing why you’re eating
Is like trying to fix a leaky roof by yelling at the rain.

You don’t need more willpower.
You need more truth.
You need more you.

And when you finally meet your actual needs—
Your real hungers—
Not with chocolate-coated Band-Aids,
But with compassion, presence and the occasional honest conversation with yourself in the car mirror at red lights…

The overeating starts to fade.
The drama dissolves.
Food becomes food again—rather than therapy in disguise.

This Is Not a Diet Pitch, This Is a Revolution

Look—this used to be my life.
I know this mess inside out.
Not from textbooks. From the trenches.

Emotional eating?
Been there.
Bingeing?
Done it.
Restrict-regret-repeat?
Had the loyalty card.

But it doesn’t run the show anymore.
Not because I became “disciplined” or found the right macro split.
Because I figured out what I was actually hungry for—
And I fed myself that instead.

If you’re ready to do the same—
To rewrite the relationship you have with food
And with yourself—
Then for the love of hummus, get in touch.

This isn’t about willpower.
It’s about truthpower.

Let’s find what you’re really hungry for—
And feed it.

Properly.
Deliciously.
Brilliantly.
Without the side of shame.

Because life’s too short to be at war with yourself for eating a bloody sandwich.