✨ I Just Want to Eat ✨

I just want to eat. Not “snack,” not “grab a bite,” but eat — for real, with butter, with bread, with that crunchy joy that fills you up all the way to happiness.

But no — this is my “new life,” my “new self,” and, of course, my “new diet.” In the morning I drink lemon water, slowly chew two almonds, and head to work — beautiful, hungry, and wearing the kind of face that says: “Don’t talk to me. I’m still alive. Barely.”

I crave mac and cheese — hot, gooey, with parmesan snowing down on top. But what’s in my bowl? Quinoa. Quinoa, for God’s sake. Even sounds like a diagnosis, not a meal. I try to convince myself it’s tasty, it’s healthy, it’s fiber. But inside there’s this voice that won’t shut up: “Is this squirrel food? Where are the dumplings? Where’s real food?”

And oh, the pull of late-night eating — in the quiet, when the fridge glows like a cathedral and no one’s watching. Or if they are — too late anyway, your conscience is asleep. I open the door, and it’s like a heart-to-heart:

— “Hey, leftover pizza, you still here?”

— “Always. I’ve been waiting.”

I want to eat without the judgment, without the voices asking: “But will you still fit into your jeans?” I don’t want to fit into jeans. I want to fit into happiness. I want to kiss a cinnamon roll, not scan its barcode into an app. I want cake for dinner, not three olives and shame because they didn’t fill me up.

I want to eat — calmly, without math, without self-flagellation, without all the “no carbs after 7” and “do you know how much starch is in that?!” I want to eat because it’s good. Because it’s allowed. Because I’m a human being, not a self-improvement project.

Meanwhile it’s back to kefir, chia seeds, and another proud but joyless note on my phone: “Day 3 without sugar” — and the line underneath, as always: “…and without joy.”

I crave pizza. But no. I’m radiant. Light. Enlightened. And starving.

And then the moment of truth arrives: midnight, the glow of a streetlight, the corner drugstore… and across the street, a taco truck. I’m standing there, face of a fallen angel, lips trembling, stomach singing opera, and I whisper:

— “One, please. With everything. Extra hot.”

The guy behind the window looks at me with compassion. No judgment. He’s seen this before. He knows this isn’t just food. It’s destiny.

I grip the foil like a lifeline. First bite — relief. Second bite — joy. Third — tears. Fifth — homecoming.

This isn’t a cheat day. This is a ritual of release — from diets, glossy promises, and sad little plastic containers of steamed chicken breast.

I’m not fallen. I’m risen.

I didn’t break. I broke free.

This isn’t fat. This is my boundary.

This isn’t calories. This is coming back to myself.

I sit there, covered in garlic sauce, drunk on carbs, half-enlightened, half-asleep with happiness, and I think: God, I want to live. And living is a verb too. Sometimes it just comes with extra sauce.