There’s this quiet tug of war that plays out when you’re trying to live healthy. On one side, there’s the food that feels good, that actually tastes like something your body recognises. On the other side, there’s that weird social static, the pause when someone sees you eating a salad and suddenly you’re that person again, and it gets exhausting, especially when you’re not trying to make a statement, you’re just hungry.
I used to be rigid, with no sugar, no processed anything, workouts six days a week. From the outside it looked like discipline, but inside, I was mentally frayed. It was the kind of clean eating that stripped joy out of my meals. Now I let it be messy, and I eat daikon bowls with creamy cashew sauce because the crunch is addictive, not because they’re low cal or because some wellness influencer said I should.
There’s leftover kale pesto in the fridge, and I slap it on lemony spaghetti squash not for aesthetics but because it tastes good and I can’t be bothered reinventing dinner on a Tuesday. I use broccoli stems because binning them feels gross, and no, I don’t always post these things, because sometimes I worry it makes me look performative, like I’m angling for a badge.
But I’m tired of pretending that enjoying healthy food makes me obsessive, or that salad has to mean struggle. It doesn’t. It means I know what my gut likes, and I like roasted delicata squash on massaged kale, I like Heidi’s spicy green soup when I’m half functioning and need something green without chopping three different herbs. Sometimes I skip workouts, and I don’t label it as anything—I just move on because not everything needs a tag.
And maybe that’s what balance looks like, chickpea stew cobbled from fridge leftovers, rainbow bowls eaten because they’re colourful and my kid thinks purple cabbage is magic. This isn’t a transformation story. It’s just the current middle, a bit wonky, a bit wholesome, no reset buttons or redemption arcs, just me quietly eating broccoli stems and slowly getting over the noise.
Let’s be honest. Cooking, especially when you’re just starting out, can feel like an ambush. (especially when you have your kidlings running around, chasing each other or trying to salvage snacks, RIGHT BEFORE DINNER)
One moment you’re standing there, hungry, reheating some noodles in a chipped mug, and the next, you’re expected to understand what mise en place means, how to hold a knife properly, and why the tomato sauce you just made somehow tastes like a watery mistake. But here’s the thing that makes all of this okay: you don’t need a shiny kitchen, the newest gadgets, or even an arsenal of spices. What you need, more than anything else, is a few steady tricks that actually work, some ingredients you trust, and the ability to accept that messing it up a few times is just part of how you get better.
Having a well stocked pantry might seem like a small thing, but when it comes to cooking regularly, it makes all the difference in the world. Think about what you actually use, what meals you come back to, and stock up on those staples. Olive oil, sea salt, a couple of types of pasta, canned beans like chickpeas or kidney, a jar of crushed tomatoes that didn’t cost the earth, these are small things that can unlock whole meals. Throw in garlic powder and onion powder for flavour, maybe some brown rice or quinoa for substance, and a can of coconut milk for those moments when you want something creamy but don’t want to fuss. Keep your pantry organized in a way that makes sense to you. Label things if it helps. Try to rotate older ingredients to the front so you actually use them before they go stale. It might not be glamorous, but it saves you from that 6pm panic where nothing’s defrosted and your stomach’s yelling.
Leafy greens, while not always the headliner, can be slipped into more meals than you think without turning it into a salad situation. Spinach stirred into your pasta sauce? Easy. Kale scattered on top of homemade pizza? Surprisingly good. Collard greens sautéed next to whatever protein you’ve got? That works too. Even if the recipe doesn’t specifically call for it, your body probably will thank you.
When it comes to kitchen tools, it’s tempting to believe that you need everything you see on a cooking show, but that’s just not true. Start small and start smart. Get yourself a chef’s knife that fits your hand comfortably and makes you feel safe when you use it. Add a wood or bamboo cutting board that won’t wreck your blades, a saucepan with a decent lid, and a non-stick skillet that you promise to treat gently. Use silicone or wooden utensils with it, they don’t cost much and they’ll keep your cookware from turning into a flaky mess. A pair of tongs, some measuring cups, and a spatula that doesn’t melt if you forget it near the burner round out the basics. You don’t need more than that to cook well.
Cooking terms can be confusing, especially when recipes throw them at you like you’re supposed to already know. Broiling means heat comes from above; grilling means heat comes from below. Boiling means a full, aggressive rolling bubble, great for things like pasta or potatoes, while simmering is a gentler heat, better for soups or sauces where you want time to let flavours come together. Roasting uses dry heat to bring out the sweetness in vegetables, or to make meat crispy on the outside while staying juicy inside. Flip halfway through. And if you’re roasting meat, give it time to rest once it’s out of the oven
PS
It keeps the juices in and stops it from drying out.
Always read your recipe from start to finish before you begin. It sounds basic, but it’s easy to skip. Some steps take longer than you think, like letting dough rest for two hours or marinating something ahead of time. Make sure you understand what each step involves, and take a second to look up anything unfamiliar. A lot of food blogs come with videos now, and sometimes the video shows you something the written steps don’t, like the texture you’re looking for, or what colour the onions should be when they’re “translucent.”
Before you even start heating your pan, set up your ingredients. This is what mise en place means: measuring out, chopping, and organizing everything you’re going to need so that when things start moving quickly, you don’t freeze or fumble. It cuts down on the stress, and it helps prevent silly mistakes like forgetting the garlic until it’s too late to matter. And while you cook, taste as you go. This isn’t baking. You have room to adjust things. Maybe it needs more garlic. Maybe it needs less salt. Maybe it just needs a splash of pasta water to bring everything together. Trust yourself and listen to your food as it cooks.
Substitutions happen more often than we admit. You forget an ingredient or can’t find something at the store, and suddenly you need a workaround. If you’re out of raspberries, strawberries often do just fine. If romaine isn’t in your fridge, iceberg will work. Can’t find fresh herbs? Use dried—just remember the ratio: one teaspoon dried for every tablespoon fresh. It helps to keep a small cheat sheet of swaps on your fridge, just something you can glance at without digging through Google every time.
Cooking asks for patience more than perfection. When you cram a bunch of mushrooms into a pan, they steam instead of brown. When you slice meat too early, the juices run out instead of staying put. When you try to rush a sauce, it ends up tasting flat. Give things time to do what they need to. Let the sauce simmer. Let the meat rest. Let yourself make something slow.
Most of all, keep trying. That’s the whole thing. Practice makes dinner. Set yourself small, realistic goals—like cooking one new recipe every week or learning how to make a tomato sauce that actually tastes like tomatoes. You’ll burn things. You’ll undercook rice. You’ll forget to salt the pasta water. But over time, these become less like mistakes and more like steps in a longer learning curve. There’s a kind of quiet joy in that. Not the performative kind you post online, but the quiet joy of feeding yourself something you made with your own hands. Something that didn’t exist until you pulled it out of your pantry, chopped, stirred, and tasted.
And if nothing goes right today? Toast with butter still counts. 🙂
There’s this quiet tug of war that plays out when you’re trying to live healthy. On one side, there’s the food that feels good, that actually tastes like something your body recognises. On the other side, there’s that weird social static, the pause when someone sees you eating a salad and suddenly you’re that person again, and it gets exhausting, especially when you’re not trying to make a statement, you’re just hungry.
I used to be rigid, with no sugar, no processed anything, workouts six days a week. From the outside it looked like discipline, but inside, I was mentally frayed, it was the kind of clean eating that stripped joy out of my meals. Now I let it be messy, and I eat daikon bowls with creamy cashew sauce because the crunch is addictive, not because they’re low cal or because some wellness influencer said I should.
There’s leftover kale pesto in the fridge, and I slap it on lemony spaghetti squash not for aesthetics but because it tastes good and I can’t be bothered reinventing dinner on a Tuesday. I use broccoli stems because binning them feels gross, and no, I don’t always post these things, because sometimes I worry it makes me look performative, like I’m angling for a badge.
But I’m tired of pretending that enjoying healthy food makes me obsessive, or that salad has to mean struggle. It doesn’t. It means I know what my gut likes, and I like roasted delicata squash on massaged kale, I like Heidi’s spicy green soup when I’m half functioning and need something green without chopping three different herbs. Sometimes I skip workouts, and I don’t label it as anything, I just move on because not everything needs a tag.
And maybe that’s what balance looks like, chickpea stew cobbled from fridge leftovers, rainbow bowls eaten because they’re colourful and my kid thinks purple cabbage is magic. This isn’t a transformation story. It’s just the current middle, a bit wonky, a bit wholesome, no reset buttons or redemption arcs, just me quietly eating broccoli stems and slowly getting over the noise.
When looking into the newest diet trends, we are bonbarded with influencers claiming that their diet has helped them overcome their wieght struggles and achieve what the most of portray as enlightenment.
Leading the learner, to overload their brain and develop analysis of the paralysis as they try and make the perfect pick for their diet.
All of these diets, invoke succeess stories, which led me to think that nuance in the diet itself whether being carnivore, paleo or vegetarian all share the same attribute being the removal of processed foods and artificial creations which have empeded in our diets with the rise of large corporations mass producing their carb and fat concoction (almond croissants are my downfall) leading the consumer to keep coming back for more, as attributed to the addictive properties.
Humans are constantly looking for a narrative to grapple onto to help them feel a little more in control of this very complex world. But this tendency, can lead us to miss the main point.
A rule which I have created to help me establish the effeciveness of a diet plan, is the more aligned the food variety is with our ancestors, the more likely you will achieve your goals coming from the diet in the first place
Now obviosuly, the level of consumption plays a role, but as a general rule, this has served me well.
I used to track everything—like, everything. Macros, micros, water intake, how many almonds I ate while standing at the pantry door pretending I wasn’t snacking. I had a spreadsheet that told me exactly what I “should” be eating. I thought control meant health. And that health meant eating like some clean-eating Pinterest goddess with perfect lighting and zero digestive issues.
Spoiler: it didn’t end well.
Somewhere between the anxiety, the 3pm crashes, and the guilt of eating a slice of banana bread that had actual sugar in it, I cracked. That moment led me to rethink my approach to gut health.
That night was weirdly pivotal. It was the beginning of me unlearning what I thought health had to look like. Now? Most days I aim for one solid meal, one chaotic one, and one that involves leftovers I don’t even heat up properly. And I feel better. Freer. Less like I’m being chased by an invisible food police.
Giving up on “perfect” eating didn’t mean giving up on health. It meant finally making space for it. Because real health—at least for me—means eating in a way that supports my life, not controls it. It’s knowing that some days I’ll roast veggies and others I’ll eat my kid’s crusts while standing at the sink.
This shift didn’t happen overnight. But it started with one honest question: Is this making me feel better, or just more in control? That question still guides me now, especially when I feel myself slipping back into old habits (like Googling if coconut yoghurt counts as a probiotic or just fancy pudding).
If any of this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. And you’re definitely not failing. You’re just a human being trying to feed yourself in a world obsessed with kale and guilt.
