Eating on the Hard Days

There are so many ways our relationships with food and body get shaped, especially when we live with madness or our bodies that carry pain, illness, or disability. For a long time I thought I had to choose between two extremes: either fully “recovered” or completely stuck in old patterns. But real life, especially when you're living with chronic conditions, madness, or both, doesn’t move in neat lines. It spirals. It pauses. It adapts to what the body and mind can hold.

For me, food has been a site of both survival and struggle. There were times when eating felt impossible. When illness or madness took my appetite or made every bite feel heavy. Other times, food became the only thing I could control in a world that felt chaotic and cruel. I’ve had to learn how to meet myself in the middle. Not with pressure. Not with judgment. Just with presence. Just with care.

I don’t always use the word recovery anymore. I’m not always sure what it means for someone like me. What I do believe in is care. Finding small ways to stay connected to myself. Listening to what my body needs today, not what it “should” need. Some days that means choosing something quick and easy because it’s the only thing I can manage. Some days that means naming I’m not okay without trying to fix it.

This is about making space for nuance. For imperfection. For care that’s flexible and soft around the edges. Not rigid plans or goals. Just staying curious. Just doing what we can. Just being honest about how complicated it is to eat and rest and live in a world that wasn’t made for us.

What a more spacious approach to eating struggles can look like:

• It might look like eating something easy on a high pain day instead of skipping food altogether.

• It might look like hopping on FaceTime or Zoom while you cook with a friend because you are overwhelmed and need someone to ground you.

• It might look like letting go of rigid food rules and asking what would feel kind right now.

• It might look like naming disordered patterns without shame, even if they’re still happening.

• It might look like honoring your grief, your madness, and your illness without trying to talk yourself out of it.

• It might look like being proud of eating anything at all.

There is so much grief tied up in all of this. Grief for the body and mind you had before illness and madness. Grief for the ease you never got to experience. Grief for how many times you’ve been told your body is a problem. That grief doesn’t need to be hidden. It doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re human. And still here.

But that grief is not a stopping place. It’s part of the process. It belongs. We don’t have to heal before we feed ourselves. We don’t have to love our bodies or minds to deserve rest. We don’t have to explain why some foods are easier than others.

Living in a world that wasn’t built for disabled, mad, chronically ill, or fat bodies means we often internalize the idea that care has to be earned. But care isn’t a reward. Nourishment isn’t a test. You don’t have to be doing better to deserve kindness. You don’t have to love your body to feed it.

Some days it’s hard. Some days you’re just doing the best you can. That’s enough. You’re enough.

If you’re somewhere in the middle, trying to figure out what feels good and what feels possible, you’re not alone. If your relationship with food, body, and madness is complicated and full of nuance, you’re not doing it wrong.

You don’t need to recover into someone else’s idea of wholeness. You get to decide what healing looks like for you. You get to move slowly. You get to change your mind. You get to be soft with yourself.

And if no one’s told you lately, your body is worthy of care exactly as it is.