How Quarantine Cooking Became Therapy for My ED
A complicated relationship with food
During quarantine, I started cooking elaborate meals. And not just the bread-baking-out-of-boredom craze.
Food has always been a complicated subject in my family. I used to identify as someone who had an eating disorder (ED), but now I understand that the real issue was never really food—it was about my relationship with myself.
The ED was a way to cope. To feel control. To manage emotions that felt too big to hold on my own. But now, I see that it was just a manifestation of deeper struggles with my worth and self-acceptance.
My adolescent years were tangled with fear, shame, and food. Like the time my dietitian asked me to bring two hamburgers to our session and we ate them together, perched on the edge of her sofa. At the time, it felt like a performance—I wasn’t ready to enjoy food in front of anyone. I was embarrassed for people to see me eat, as if eating in front of others somehow revealed a secret about me that I didn’t want to confront. I told her what I thought she wanted to hear, knowing I’d drive away with the windows rolled down and the rest of the burger in the passenger seat.
But that was then, and this is now.
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From shame to nourishment
While my past is part of my story, it no longer defines me. Healing has taught me that food is not something to hide or fear. Meals aren’t about guilt or punishment. Food is nourishment, yes, but it’s also joy, connection, and an opportunity to be fully present. I’m no longer consumed by the fear of calories or the shame of what’s on my plate.
During quarantine, something shifted.
I discovered a new way of relating to food. I found joy in cooking—real, sustained joy. It became a form of therapy, but not in the way I once thought. It’s not about control anymore. It’s about creativity, mindfulness, and a sense of fulfillment that goes beyond the meal itself.
It starts with the process: finding a recipe, gathering ingredients, and spending time in the kitchen. There’s something about the rhythm of chopping vegetables, the scent of rosemary crisping in a pan, or the way butter browns just before it burns. It’s grounding. It’s the opposite of checking out—cooking pulls me into the moment, makes me focus on the here and now. The simple act of following a recipe has become a way to remind myself to slow down and breathe.
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Letting go of perfectionism
Living in Madrid has its own challenges, like the time I cried in a Greek shop because they were out of orzo (and it’s the only place in town to get it). But even that moment taught me something: sometimes things don’t go as planned, and that’s okay. Cooking reminds me that it’s okay to adapt, to improvise, and that there’s beauty in the process, even when the rice burns and sauce spills down the side of the pan.
I’ve learned that spices like cumin and coriander can transform a dish, and that almost any mistake in the kitchen can be fixed with garlic or salted butter.
And I’ve found that, in the kitchen, I can lose myself in the best possible way. The perfectionism that once drove me—both in my relationship to food and in other areas of my life—has softened. Now, it’s about enjoying the process, not just the end result.
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Cooking as an act of self love
Michael Pollan wrote, “For is there any practice less selfish, any labor less alienated, any time less wasted, than preparing something delicious and nourishing for people you love?” (Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation). It resonates with me now in ways I never thought possible.
Cooking isn’t just about feeding myself or others; it’s about creating something beautiful. It’s about showing care for myself in a way that used to feel so foreign.
When I bake a lemon-glazed cake from scratch and enjoy it on my balcony with an afternoon coffee, that’s an experience. It’s a moment to savor—not just the food, but the act of being present with myself. It’s not about rushing through a sugary snack in the bathroom where no one can see me or feeling guilty for satisfying my hunger. I’m beyond grateful to say that those days are behind me.
Of course, there are still whispers from time to time—the old voices that tell me an empty stomach is a sign of strength or that I need to calculate the “cost” of each indulgence.
But I’ve found a way to quiet them.
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Now, I listen to a different voice: one that tells me I deserve to enjoy what I’ve worked to create. I deserve to nourish myself, in every sense of the word.
Cooking has become more than just a way to feed myself—it’s become a practice of self-compassion. It reminds me that I’m worthy of care, of joy, and of the time it takes to create something for myself.
And in the end, that lesson has been so much more than filling.
