Why I Am Finally Done Hating Myself for Overeating

For most of my life, food was a way to escape—not a way to connect.

I grew up in a household shaped by trauma, addiction, and constant overwhelm. And in that kind of environment, food became one of the only safe places. A comfort. A way to soothe my nervous system. I wasn’t taught that food could be sacred, or joyful, or healing. I wasn’t taught that food could connect me to myself, my body, or the people around me.

My mom was not a single parent, but with my stepdad working the 3–11 shift and my mom holding down a full-time job and raising two kids, there wasn’t a lot of time for family dinners or home-cooked meals. We did what we could—fast meals, often in front of the TV. That was normal. And honestly, I wasn’t an easy kid to feed. I was picky. My food categories were basically just carbs and cheese.

As I got older, food became even less about fuel or nourishment and even more about coping. Especially during the pandemic. I had recently stepped away from my role at Presence Marketing and was navigating major transitions in both my personal and professional life. The isolation hit hard. I was trying to run a business, recalibrate my identity, and survive the grief of change—all while being completely alone. And food was always there. A quick hit of relief. A soft landing. A way to calm the chaos inside me.

But that comfort always came with a cost.

I’d feel bloated, disconnected, uncomfortable in my skin. And then the self-hate would kick in. Why did you eat that much? Why can’t you get it together? What is wrong with you?

I’ve never been diagnosed with an eating disorder. But I’ve absolutely had an unhealthy, painful relationship with food. One that left me feeling powerless, ashamed, and angry with myself. For years, I tried to fix it by being stricter. More disciplined. But the truth is, healing didn’t come from control.

It came from connection.

A big part of that shift began when my ex introduced me to real, nourishing cooking. Not performative, Pinterest-style, or chef-like fancy cooking. Just simple, grounding, weekly meal prep. Eating in instead of always eating out. I didn’t realize how much I needed that rhythm. That consistency. I’ve kept that practice ever since.

I found an app called ReciMe to collect recipes from Instagram or online, save my own, and plan out my meals. It even builds a grocery list for me. It’s not about being “good”—it’s about supporting myself.

 

But the real relief? It came when I started filling myself in other ways.

 

After the heartbreak that was 2023—a personal breakup, a professional breakup, the complete unraveling of a version of me I had built over decades—I was left raw. Grieving over change, like before.

 But this time with a new perspective… one of freedom, confidence, and a fierce knowing that I could curate a more intentional path. And slowly, I found my way back to something truer.

Now, when I feel overwhelmed, I don’t desperately reach for food. I feel the overwhelm. I move it. I walk. I journal. I do breathwork. I sit in the sauna. I hum, tone, or shake to get back into my body. Sometimes, I just talk to God—not some far-off being, but the God that is me. The deepest, most honest, most connected version of me.

And now, before I eat, I pause. I breathe. I let my body know: it’s safe to rest and digest. I thank the farmers, the people who grew and transported my food. I ask my body to receive it easily, to enjoy it. I invite nourishment in.

And it’s working.

As Geneen Roth writes in Women Food and God: “When you eat what your body wants, how it wants it, your body becomes the body you were meant to inhabit.”

That line pierced me. Because for so long, I hated the body I was in. I stuffed it. I ignored it. I resented it. But now, I listen. I eat more slowly. I stop when I’m full. I don’t need every meal to be exciting or perfect. I just want it to support me. And I want to support me, too.

I’m also moving through perimenopause, and it’s made me more committed than ever to honoring my body. I lift weights three times a week. I walk. I hydrate. I pay attention to how I feel. And I let it be easy when I can. I’m not perfect. I still eat more than I need sometimes. But I no longer spiral into hate. I no longer shame myself for having used food to soothe when that’s what I needed in the moment. Because now, I have other ways to come back to myself.

 

And more than anything, I have compassion for the version of me who didn’t. She did what she had to do. And that’s perfectly ok.

Mangia!

Kate