I’ve always found autobiographies a little pretentious. You pick out the parts of your life that you most want people to see (because, if we’re being honest, most people who write autobiographies are trying to show themselves as someone worth immortalization). Then of course there’s the added assumption that someone out there actually wants to read about you. I feel as if it would a major blow to the ego to put forth the effort of writing and publishing something just to find out that no one finds your life worth reading, even the incredibly interesting bit about your stint as a circus clown.
In general I give out information as it’s asked for, but for the sake of doing this right I’ll give you some details. I am a born foodie. My family comes together to cook and to eat. Holidays are just as much about the food served as the company. Recipes are birthrights. I was always raised to love food.
But some time along the way, my relationship with food was challenged. Where there was always only love, now came fear and uncertainty. First I let stress change how I interacted with food, then I let other people’s poor relationships with food (and themselves) affect me.
That’s how I started this. Overthinking how and what I ate, and over-complicating my relationship with food. If you’re here now, and you stay for a few minutes, then you get to read as I work to un-complicate it.