Eating Disorders and Gentle Awareness

Lately, I’ve been sitting with clients who describe their relationship with food as a battlefield. The truth is, eating disorders aren’t about vanity—they’re often about control, comfort, or an attempt to cope with overwhelming feelings. Healing begins when we stop labeling food as “good” or “bad” and instead lean into curiosity: What is my body asking for? What is my heart asking for? It takes bravery to replace self-criticism with compassion, but the gentle shift from punishment to patience is where true recovery starts.

The Grand Canyon and the Edge of Myself

I once took a group trek into the Grand Canyon, and I still feel the canyon inside me. The descent was exhilarating, but it was the climb back up that demanded everything I had. My legs trembled, the sun scorched, and silence became our shared language. Somewhere between the red stone walls and the switchbacks, I realized that resilience isn’t about conquering the landscape—it’s about discovering that we can hold our fear, fatigue, and awe at the same time. When I finally stepped back onto the rim, I knew the canyon hadn’t been conquered. It had carved me a little deeper.

Lessons from the Garden

My garden has been both unruly and generous. The peas curled gracefully, the peppers glowed like lanterns, and the cabbages unfurled their pale green mysteries. The lettuce bolted too fast under the summer sun, while the mint staged a coup, spreading wildly into every corner. And then there’s the rosemary—so much rosemary that I could scent an entire village. Tending this garden reminds me that growth is never neat or entirely under our control. Some things thrive, some things surprise, and some things refuse to stay in their borders. Maybe the art of living is not in forcing order, but in learning to harvest abundance, even when it arrives in wild, unexpected forms.

Pancakes

One Saturday morning, I ruined a batch of pancakes. I rushed the batter, flipped too soon, and ended up with a messy plate of half-burnt, half-raw discs. My first instinct was frustration, but then I laughed. I laughed at myself, at my perfectionism, at the way I expected pancakes—and life—to always turn out just right. I remade them slowly, letting the batter bubble, letting the moment breathe. The second batch was tender, golden, and a quiet reminder that growth doesn’t come from forcing results. It comes from patience, presence, and being willing to start again.