Healthy Chicks

I spent a large portion of my life — that is, the majority of my upper teens and early twenties — hating food.

It’s not that I didn’t like the taste of food; now that I loved. That certainly wasn’t the problem.

It’s that I hated the way food made me fat (or so I thought.) Regardless, it made me feel fat and for that reason alone I grew to despise it.

Even worse than hating food was that I was well aware of this “issue” of mine, and wanted so badly to be normal like the rest of my friends. I was ashamed of myself and my weird ways with food.

I’ll never forget that feeling of watching my beautiful + lively college roommates enjoy pizza, pasta and beer without a care in the world, as I’d sit there starving myself. Literally. “Thanks, but I already ate dinner,” or “I’m stuffed,” I’d lie to myself (and my friends) and I sat there salivating watching them eat, feeling 100% empty.

Whether I ate a spoonful of peanut butter, some rice cakes, roasted chicken or a half of a bagel, I was left feeling guilty; it was never good enough and I always found a way to punish myself for being “bad.”

Every meal, dinner out, or snack was a whole ordeal for me involving a meticulous calorie-counting formula swallowed by an extra dose of guilt. I was constantly on edge, worried sick about that next meal. When would it be? Who would be watching me? How many calories would I consume? What would the scale say the next morning?

I avoided dinners out like the plague, family vacations were centered around food and exercise, and Thanksgiving (and most holidays in that case) was a giant anxiety fest. I was living fearing food, in turn not really living at all.

One summer, I traveled abroad in Southern Italy, and for the first time in years had to get by without a scale or nutrition labels. Most everything was served fresh (from mozzarella and fish to fresh breads and fruit I’d pick up at the local stands), and the minimal processed food I ate was labeled in Italian with a different way of tracking calories.

Put plain and simple, it was just me, myself and my body. So I did what I was meant to do: listened to it.

I enjoyed the rich flavor of chocolate gelato on hot summer afternoons, stayed up until midnight sharing memories and breaking bread around the table with new friends and carelessly ate real bread, real cheese and real meat for the first time in a long while. I felt so alive, so free.

That was just the beginning of a major life shift I was going through (one that took several years to break through), a shift toward truly learning to celebrate and enjoy food.

It pains me to look back on this time at my old self, a girl who was so self-conscious, anxious and so very mean to her body. It pains me even more to know there are hundreds of other girls going through a similar story: ashamed, scared and confused. They (or you) are not alone.

Now, some of my most favorite memories are centered around the table (over good food). A place that once brought such a great deal of fear now brings joy, happiness and laughter.

Each family recipe tells a story, like Grandma Carol’s famous chocolate cake, Grandma Mary’s pierogies, dad’s award-winning chili, and my annual birthday meal: chicken parmesan with Fettuccine Alfredo. And believe it or not, Thanksgiving is now my favorite holiday: a time where family and loved ones can come together to celebrate love (and food).

As I lay here on this snowy eve with my hubby (snuggled up in my favorite fuzzy blanket), I slowly sip a glass of bold Cabernet as I savor the rich, tart berry flavor.

I am blessed that this (sometimes crazy) life of mine has taught me the lessons it has, and await many more memories we’ll create around the table with good food, good laughs and a few good drinks.

XoXo,

Rachel