I’ve been thinking a lot lately about food.

Not in a diet culture way.
Not in a “summer body” way.
More in a:
“What does nourishment feel like when your nervous system has spent years in survival mode?” kind of way.

Growing up, I was always small.

And people noticed.

Kids can be cruel, but sometimes adults leave marks too.

I remember always keeping a jacket on. One day a school secretary looked at me and said:
“You’re trying to hide your body.”

I still remember how exposed I felt in that moment.

Then there were the nicknames:
Walking Stick.
Skinny Minnie.
Pippi Longstocking.

A few others not worth mentioning. 

People said them casually, jokingly, but when you’re young, comments about your body have a way of settling into your spirit.

Especially when you’re already sensitive.

The truth is, I’ve never been a big eater.

I’m the girl asking for a to-go box before everybody else is halfway done.
The one who eats slowly.
The one with specific preferences.
The one who doesn’t like a lot of spice.
The picker.

And when stress enters the picture?
My appetite is usually the first thing to disappear.

Not intentionally.
Not as control.
Not vanity.

My body just…shuts down.

Over the past few weeks, I realized how much stress I’ve actually been carrying because eating became hard again.

Nothing sounded good.
I would forget to eat.
Or I would know I needed food but feel too overwhelmed to figure out what to make.

It’s strange how emotional nourishment can become.

Lately though, my appetite has slowly been returning.

Not because life suddenly became perfect.
But because care started showing up in small ways.

Home-cooked meals.
Friends asking me what I plan to eat for the day.

Friends asking what can I bring you back. 
People making me identify an actual meal plan instead of surviving on caffeine and vibes.

And honestly? Cooking for another person is such an intimate act of care.

Especially when the person is:
a picky eater,
a low-appetite girl,
sensitive,
stressed,
and still learning that she deserves nourishment even when she’s overwhelmed.

There’s something healing about someone remembering:
“She doesn’t like a lot of spice.”
“She probably needs a to-go box.”
“She eats small portions.”
“She still needs to eat anyway.”

For so long, food felt tied to awareness of my body.
To comments.
To stress.
To survival.

But maybe nourishment can also become tied to gentleness.

To safety.
To slowing down.
To laughter over burgers and fries.
To being cared for without criticism.

Maybe healing sometimes looks like your appetite quietly returning after being gone for a while.

Maybe it looks like finally feeling safe enough to be hungry again.