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.