Sometimes, when I’m really struggling inside, I don’t say a word about it. Instead, I cook dinner.
It might sound strange, but for me, the kitchen has become a quiet refuge. When my mind is spinning with worry, when my heart feels heavy with things I can’t quite put into words, I put on an apron and start chopping, stirring, and plating. Somehow, the act of preparing a meal brings a sense of calm, a little order in the middle of my chaos.
Why do I do this? Because telling people “I’m struggling too” feels impossible. It feels like admitting I’m weak, broken, or not enough. And sometimes, I’m terrified that if I say it out loud, I’ll lose the image of strength that everyone expects me to keep. So instead of breaking down, I break bread.
Cooking becomes my silent language. With every ingredient I add, every dish I set on the table, I’m trying to say “I’m here. I care. Even if I’m hurting, I want to take care of you.” It’s a way of showing love and connection without exposing the messy, vulnerable parts of myself that I’m not ready for anyone to see.
But here’s the truth that no one sees: behind those meals, I’m carrying a heavy load. I’m exhausted. I’m overwhelmed. There are nights I lie awake, heart racing, thinking about all the things I don’t say. I want to scream “Help me!” but the words get stuck. I’m afraid of being a burden, afraid of being judged. So I swallow it all and keep cooking.
I know I’m not alone in this. So many of us hide behind acts of service, busy ourselves with tasks, or plaster on a smile because being vulnerable feels too dangerous. We want to be the strong ones, the dependable ones, the ones who have it all together. But in hiding, we end up more alone than ever.
What I’m learning — and what I hope you’ll learn too — is that it’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to say it out loud: “I’m struggling.” You don’t have to carry your pain alone. Sharing it doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human, it makes you brave.
And sometimes, sharing that pain can be the most healing thing of all.
So if you ever come over for dinner at my place and you see me smiling while I serve the food, maybe look a little closer. Maybe ask me how I’m really doing. Because sometimes, the best way to heal isn’t in perfect meals or carefully crafted words — it’s in letting someone in.
It’s scary, yes. But it’s also beautiful.
Because in the end, what we all want is to be seen — truly seen — and to be held in our brokenness. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real recipe for comfort.
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