Three years ago, I fell out of love with food. I didn't want to shop, I didn't want to cook. I ate for necessity, not pleasure. The ends of a loaf of bread. An apple. A glass of oat milk.
This loss left me feeling empty. Food was how I spent my time and paid my bills. It was the language I spoke fluently. Food was how I navigated my emotions and memory, and how I tapped into my past, bringing to life a family history...
I'd like to say there was a single, neat reason for my breakdown but, like life, the truth is messy. Its origin can be traced back decades; to the start of my existence. But it reached a climax during the pandemic, after various stresses had accumulated.
By the time I arrived, my parents' mission was to show me ambition and opportunity. They made me feel as if I could do anything with my life; the most prized gift you could
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