Hunger is a Language of Desire

One thing I didn’t mention in my book, probably because there were so many ways I was hurting myself back then and I was still scared to talk about it, is that I was caught in a relentless loop of cleanses and restrictions. I was desperately trying to shrink into someone “better,” someone less visible, less complicated, more desirable. My divorce left me raw and unmoored, and I thought if I could control my body, maybe I could control the pain.

I remember one evening clearly: I was standing in my small Paris kitchen, my body starting to contort with hunger, but I refused to eat. Instead, I was sipping on a bitter herbal tea, another cleanse to “detox” the mess I felt inside. The silence around me was thick and heavy, and the hunger pangs were sharp, but I pushed them down, telling myself I didn’t deserve to feel satisfied, or to want pleasure, or even to just be full.

Now, looking back, I’m so sad that I was so comfortable starving my body and soul. I was denying the very part of me that craves connection, comfort, and joy. Hunger wasn’t the enemy during that time of my life; shame was.

But as I’ve continued this Dinner for One journey, as I’ve relearned to love myself again. I can clearly see that my hunger was more than a signal for food. It was a language, a conversation between my body and my heart. After my divorce, relearning to listen to that language was a scary act of self-trust. I was telling myself that if I could make this dinner, if I could do this nice thing for myself, I’d be okay. I’d figure it out. I’d be whole. With every dinner for one I made, in my own way, it was a refusal to silence my desires and the full messy spectrum of what makes me a (flawed) human.

As my solo dinners became a part of my daily ritual, I found sanctuary. Cooking became my way of showing up for myself without judgment. I learned to honor my appetite as a compass guiding me toward healing and pleasure. The meals I prepared were flavorful love letters to myself that celebrated my softness, my strength, and set a foundation for what was to come. 

And eventually I stopped with the cleanses. 

No more cleanses meant no longer erasing my hunger or my feelings.  I was learning to say yes to food and a new life. It meant reclaiming my right to enjoy, to savor, to take up space with my appetite and my desires. To just be happy again. 

Divorce stripped away so much, but it also created space to rebuild my relationship with myself and my body. Today, I’m a few years out of my divorce, made peace with my body and every meal I make for myself is still a little middle finger to the shame that tried to shrink me. 

Sure, it might only look like sardines on toast. But those sardines, that chili crisp and that naughty little knob of butter are my way of saying I am here, I am worthy, and I deserve to be fully nourished and loved.