"Comfort Food, Comfort Feelings"

Some nights don’t feel right. They don’t crash in loudly or come with thunder. They just… settle in. A quiet discomfort, like a stone in your shoe you didn’t notice until you sat down to rest.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Someone said something. Nothing big. Not cruel, not loud. Just enough to leave a little mark. A few words, said in passing, stuck in my mind like a tiny splinter. I kept trying to shake it off, but it stayed. Sharp. Small. Stubborn.

I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t feel like sharing or explaining. I just needed something to do with my hands. Something simple. Something real.

So, I wandered into the kitchen, not really sure why. I wasn’t hungry, but I needed to move. Needed something to focus on besides that sentence that had taken up space in my head.

I opened the pantry. And there they were: two sweet potatoes.

They weren’t perfect. A little soft around the edges, with that slightly wrinkled look that says they’ve been waiting a bit too long. But they were there, and so was I. Maybe that was enough.

I didn’t want to mash them. That felt too soft, too emotional. I didn’t feel like being gentle tonight. So I peeled them—sharp and fast. Like they owed me something. Like peeling them could strip away the mood hanging over me.

Then I chopped them. Not neatly, not with care. I cut them into small, angry little cubes. There was something strangely satisfying about it. About turning something whole into little pieces I could control.

I tossed them in a bowl—drizzled some oil, sprinkled salt, a bit of smoked paprika for bite, and just a touch of brown sugar. Not too much. I wasn’t feeling sweet. Just… steady.

I spread them out on a baking tray, turned the oven to 225°C, and slid them in. The heat greeted them, and soon, the kitchen began to smell warm and rich. Smoky, sweet, a little spicy. It was the smell of something happening. Something good. Something I had made with my own hands.

And while they roasted, something in me began to shift.

There’s something healing about the way food changes in the oven. The way it softens and colors and crackles under heat. It reminded me that heat doesn’t always mean harm. Sometimes, it means growth. Change. Transformation.

I stood there, arms crossed, watching those sweet potatoes roast through the glass. The edges started to darken. The oil sizzled. I could hear the faint hiss as the sugars bubbled.

Something about that sound made my shoulders drop just a little. My jaw unclenched. My mind, still buzzing with that one silly sentence, started to quiet down.

And when the timer went off, I opened the oven and pulled them out. They were perfect. Crisped on the edges, soft in the center. Like they’d been through something and come out stronger, more themselves.

I stood at the counter and ate them straight off the tray. No plate, no napkin. Just me and the food I had made.

Each bite felt warm and grounding, like I was slowly returning to myself. Like the storm inside was beginning to pass.

I didn’t solve anything tonight. I didn’t write a speech or send a text or say how I felt. But I cooked something. I created calm where there wasn’t any. I turned leftover sweet potatoes and restless thoughts into something comforting.

And maybe that’s enough for tonight.

Not every problem needs fixing. Not every hurt needs a name. Sometimes, we just need to do something with our hands. Something simple. Something warm. Something we can taste and touch and say, “I did this. I made this. I’m okay.”

So if you ever find yourself feeling heavy for no clear reason—if a sentence clings to your mind like a shadow—try cooking something. Not fancy. Not for anyone else. Just for you.

Start with sweet potatoes.

Let them remind you that even soft things can hold strength. That heat doesn’t always break us—it can bring out our best parts.

And that sometimes, all it takes to calm a restless heart… is a little salt, a little heat, and something golden, crisp, and made with your own two hands.