Editor’s note: The following story references disordered eating.
“Food is fuel.” I’ve heard the cliché my entire life, and it never resonated. Food has always represented much more to me: a reason to gather, a way to celebrate holidays, a source of nostalgia and novelty. To see food as proverbial gas in the tank seemed clinical.
But food has also been a source of deep personal anxiety, and in moments, downright pain. For many years, I was obsessive and compulsive with my eating behavior. A binge-and-restrict cycle became my norm, with food acting as the currency for doling out punishment and rewards.
As I worked with a therapist and mended my relationship with food, I started seeing it as nourishment for my spirit. This was actually fairly easy—I’ve always loved to eat. But it was finding the resolve to intentionally fuel my body, especially as I’ve established a deeper practice of strength training and running, that remained a struggle.
So used to underfueling, I assumed everyone was so tired after a jog or lift that they also literally fell asleep an hour later. Not the case! Many people with robust movement routines eat enough carbs, protein, and fat—not just to achieve a baseline level of physical nourishment, but a quantity necessary to build stamina for heavier sets, increasing mileage or speed, what have you.
This kind of nutrition was new to me. It was more than salad and a plank of salmon. As I educated myself on truly energy-enhancing and recovery-supporting foods, I found ingredients I’d been conditioned to see as “unhealthy,” like bread and cheese, or white potatoes and red meat, actually offered incredible nourishment.
Throughout my teens and early adulthood, I approached health with an all-or-nothing mentality. When I learned that red meat was higher in saturated fat than legumes, I limited my intake of the former. After reading that too many carbohydrates could spike my blood sugar, potentially leading to more hunger and weight gain, I swapped my morning oatmeal for yogurt. Even though I had no medical predispositions to warrant slashing these foods, I saw the ingredients as barriers to optimal health.
At the time, my definition of “healthy” was misguidedly synonymous with “being thin.” I logged hours of endless, directionless cardio, the only intention for which was to burn the minimal calories I consumed the rest of the day.
