I was around 11 years old the first time my mother brought me into the kitchen and, unknowingly, opened a door that would one day help save my life. I didn’t realize she was carrying her own mental health challenges. What I did know was that being in the kitchen felt different. It felt safe.
She taught me simple meals and always said something that stuck with me: “Flavors are like people. When they blend well, you bring out something special.” At that age, I didn’t understand the depth of what she meant. But I understood how it felt to take a few ingredients and create something meaningful.
Over time, the kitchen became a place where I could breathe.
Growing up around addiction and instability, there were many days when life felt heavy and unpredictable. But the kitchen didn’t demand perfection from me. It didn’t judge me. It just asked me to show up. Even if everything around me felt out of control, I could reach for ingredients and work through my emotions step by step.
Cooking became my therapy long before I ever used the word ‘therapy.’
As life got harder — through grief, loss, depression, and seasons of feeling overwhelmed — the kitchen remained steady. When I didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling, I cooked. When I needed silence, I cooked. When I needed comfort, I cooked. Something about turning raw, unfinished ingredients into something nourishing for both my body and soul helped me believe things in my life could transform, too, if I gave them time.
Eventually, cooking became a way for me to connect with others. I started inviting people over, hosting dinners, and creating community around the table. What had once been my private coping space became a place where others felt welcomed, seen, and cared for.
I’m not a world-renowned chef.
But I am someone who learned how to take what I had and create something meaningful. And that lesson goes far beyond food.
Maybe cooking isn’t your outlet.
Maybe it’s writing, movement, music, journaling, or something else creative that helps you process your emotions. Whatever it is, I hope you find a space — no matter what that looks like — that helps you feel grounded and safe. A place where you can slow down, breathe, and show up as you are.
Cooking gave me a sense of control when everything else felt unstable. It showed me that healing doesn’t always happen in big moments. Sometimes it happens in quiet places where we gather what we have and do the best we can.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
You don’t have to be perfect to create something beautiful. You just have to begin.
