Recipes I Never Shared

Prologue

I used to cook to be accepted.
I seasoned meals to please their tastes, not mine.
I brought dishes to their gatherings, always hoping for a nod of approval, a half-smile, a “not bad.”

They never said thank you.

And I kept going.
Kept trying.
Kept shrinking.

Until one day, I stood in their kitchen—holding a casserole I made from a recipe his aunt dictated—and realized I couldn’t even taste my own food anymore.

So I left.
No note. No explanations. Just a packed bag and a quiet exit.

And a promise to myself:
I will eat to feel. I will cook to heal.

Chapter 1: Boiling Over

My new kitchen was barely more than a nook.
But it was mine.

I bought a blender with the last of my gift card money and stocked up on herbs and spices they never liked:
Coriander. Paprika. Ginger. Mint.

That night, I made a warm turmeric and almond milk blend with a hint of cardamom. I hadn’t had anything like it in years.

It tasted like coming home to a place I’d never been.

I cried at the first sip. Not because it was perfect. But because it was mine.

It didn’t need their approval. It just needed my body’s quiet yes.

Chapter 2: The Kitchen Became a Mirror

I started cooking again. Not for them. For me.

Sweet potato mash with coconut oil and cinnamon.
Watermelon juice with fresh lime.
Black bean chili slow-cooked with love.

Every dish brought back something I’d buried:
– The joy I felt when I first learned to make soup from scratch.
– The way I used to hum while stirring.
– The girl who used to write her own recipes and tape them to the fridge.

She had been silent. But now, she was back.

And she was hungry.

Chapter 3: Learning to Taste Again

I kept a small notebook by the window. In it, I wrote down everything I made—not for perfection, but for memory.

“Date and tahini smoothie — reminded me I don’t need to be sweet to be loved.”
“Chickpea salad — texture matters. So do I.”
“Mint and cucumber water — I’m allowed to be refreshed.”

Some days I made nothing fancy—just rice and steamed greens. Other days, I made elaborate meals no one else would ever taste.

But I tasted every bite. And I listened.

My body began to soften. My shoulders relaxed. My appetite came back—not just for food, but for life.

Epilogue: A Recipe Just For Me

It was a Sunday afternoon when I realized I hadn’t thought about them in days.

Not because I hated them.
Because I had outgrown the hunger for their approval.

That day, I blended pineapple, basil, and coconut water into a bright, frothy glass of something that felt like a celebration.

I poured it into my nicest cup. Sat by the window.

And toasted to my own return.

The girl who used to cook quietly?
She now stirred loudly.

She seasoned without fear.
She baked without apology.
She blended herself back together.

And this time, she wasn’t offering anyone a plate.

She was feeding herself first.