The kitchen That Saved Me from Grief

I grew up in a home filled with silence-the kind of silence that follows shouting, breaking things, and tears held back because someone stronger is always watching. My father was emotionally and physically abusive toward my mother. He never allowed her to have a voice, and for years, neither did I.

Back then, we lived in a rural village where people didn't talk about mental health. you were either strong or weak. There was no in -between. When my mother started withdrawing, shaking at night, or crying without reason. It wasn't called anxiety or depression. People whispered about witchcraft. They said someone had cursed her. And my father believed it.

Her pain was dismissed,spiritualized,and mocked. No one saw it as what truly was-a woman breaking under the weight of life she didn't choose.

Then came more pain.

Her only sister passed away. They were close, and it shattered her. But before we had time to heal from that, another tragedy struck. My older brother, her pride and joy, was hit by a car in a horrible accident. He was in a coma for 10 days. We held our breath each day, hoping he would come back to us.

He didn't.

My mother's world ended that day. And mine did too. But instead of grieving, I focused all my energy on trying to be strong for her. I told myself I had to fill my brother's place. I stopped crying. I stopped asking for things. I became silent-just like her.

But emotions don't disappear. They find a way to surface. Mine found their way into pots and pans, spices and spoons.

I started cooking more and more. I would mix spices like I was mixing memories. I didn't realize it at the time, but cooking became my way of speaking, of feeling, of surviving. It wasn't just about food. It was about keeping something alive inside of me when everything else felt dead.

There's something comforting about steam rising from a pot of stew. There's something deeply emotional about kneading dough for steam bread. It felt like therapy-except it was free and didn't ask questions i couldn't answer.

Years passed. I became an adult; but I carried all that pain with me. I didn't know what it meant to feel happy without guilt. I didn't know how to rest or receive love. Then one day, I met someone who showed me a different way to live-someone gentle, patient and kind, For the first time, I felt safe.

That's when I started cooking differently. It was no longer about survival. It was about healing.

Now, when I cook sugar beans with mince or steam bread over fire, I remember the strength I inherited from my mother. I remember my brother's laugh. I remember the broken little girl I used to be. And most importantly, I remember that food is more than just something we eat- It's a way back home.

I'm not a chef. I never went to culinary school. But I know Flavors. I know emotion. And I've learned that the best meals don't come from perfect recipes- they come from, love, loss and the courage to try again.

Whenever I cook beef stew or lamb chops, my heart and soul drift back to the City of Gold-Johannesburg. Specifically, Brakpan, where my heart feels most at home. That's where I release every emotion held in my body and soul, pouring them into the plate for someone who sees me differently-someone who makes me feel seen, loved, and understood.

Cooking does not just feed my body; it keeps my soul alive.

"In every spice I stir, in every pot I lift, I find the pieces of myself I thought I had lost."