'My love for food was profound and profoundly complicated.'
One late morning my boss summoned me out of the caves and into the office. A French cheesemaker with a tiny goatee was visiting from Alsace. He unpacked a lineup of cheeses from a rolling suitcase, poured bubbly into plastic cups, and cut hunks from his beauties. My coworkers gathered around to try his wares. Half my brain was trying to follow his heavily accented lecture on cow breeds and importing regulations.
“I used to throw away brownies and then pour coffee grounds on top so I wouldn’t eat them. Then I’d fish them out and wipe off the coffee and eat them anyway.” I also met chefs, food writers, mixologists, and restaurant managers. Some of them told me that their recovery made them better at what they did. Others said it wasn’t quite so simple.
I needn’t have worried about my essay. The response was a chorus of “me too.” The essay spawned another. And that second essay led to my first book,People who I’d never suspected had struggled began confessing their own stories—my friend the Instagram-famous baker who had starved herself until she landed in the hospital, the “wellness” blogger who couldn’t stop getting up in the middle of the night to binge on gluten-free goodies, the binge-eating server.
One of my friends in recovery, a stylist and recipe developer who works with all the most prestigious food mags, told me this: “It’s a constant struggle—but that doesn’t mean that I’m miserable. It’s a challenge that I’m open to. I love my work and I love food—and I love finding a way to make it all work.” Hearing stories like hers gave me the confidence that I, too, could figure out a way to make it all work.
But all those meetings and therapy sessions and minutes spent watching my thoughts pass like clouds in the sky were not for naught. By that time I had recovery friends to call. I knew what to do. They listened, they commiserated, and immediately I felt just the smallest bit better. The thing about the eating disorder voice is that, left to marinate in the confines of my brain, it grows in ferocity and power. But when I share it, it loses its teeth.
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