The psychology of food: healing our relationship with what we eat

Food is a quintessential component of human existence. It is not merely a source of energy; it is intertwined with our emotions, memories, culture, relationships, celebrations, and even our identity. Yet, somewhere along the way, the relationship between human beings and food has become increasingly complicated.

Coming from a psychology background, I have often wondered why we have developed so much fear and guilt around something as fundamental as eating. We have created an entire vocabulary around food—“good food,” “bad food,” “clean eating,” “cheat meals,” “guilty pleasures,” and “fattening foods.” Perhaps the real problem is not food itself, but the meaning we have attached to it.

I do not deny that eating-related psychological disorders are real and can be extremely serious. However, I believe that many unhealthy attitudes towards food also emerge from something much more ordinary: fear. Fear of gaining weight. Fear of losing our physical attractiveness. Fear of not fitting into socially constructed standards of beauty.

I experienced this fear myself.

When I was nineteen, like many other teenagers, I was fascinated by social media. Unfortunately, social media also became my greatest source of misinformation about food and the human body. My feed was filled with videos telling me what I should and should not eat, which foods were supposedly “toxic,” and how eliminating certain foods could transform my body.

One concept that particularly fascinated me was the idea of eliminating the so-called “three whites”—sugar, salt, and refined flour. The internet presented these foods almost as villains. And, honestly, I wondered: how could anyone completely eliminate foods that are so deeply embedded in everyday eating?

At nineteen, I was transitioning from school to college and, like many young women, I wanted to look attractive. I wanted the “dream body” that social media constantly told me I should have.

At that time, I weighed around 52 kilograms. I was perfectly healthy, but one day I looked at myself and noticed what I perceived to be a small belly pouch. Suddenly, I convinced myself that it needed to disappear.

And then came the inevitable question:

How do I lose it?

My best friend—social media—had plenty of answers.

Crash diets. Intermittent fasting. Keto diets. Calorie restriction. Protein-heavy meals.

I was young, curious, and adventurous, so I tried several of them.

And yes, they worked—for a while.

Because I was consuming fewer calories than my body was expending, my weight dropped from approximately 52 kilograms to 49 kilograms. I was happy. I felt thinner, and therefore, I convinced myself that I looked better.

But eventually, my body wanted something beyond protein-heavy meals and restricted foods.

It wanted carbohydrates.

It wanted pizza, burgers, pasta and, most importantly, my favourite cheesecake.

So I ate them.

What followed was a cycle familiar to many people who have experienced restrictive eating: restriction was followed by cravings, cravings were followed by indulgence, and indulgence was followed by guilt.

My weight eventually went up to around 61 kilograms.

I was devastated.

But something interesting happened during that period. I realised that I did not actually want to become the 49-kilogram version of myself again. I wanted to return to the 52-kilogram girl I had originally been—the girl who ate without constantly calculating calories, who did not categorise every meal as “healthy” or “unhealthy,” and who did not feel guilty for enjoying food.

That experience taught me something much more valuable than any diet ever could:

I needed to stop fighting my body and start listening to it.

This does not mean that nutrition is irrelevant or that every food has identical nutritional value. It means that food should not become a source of constant fear, shame, or self-punishment.

So, how do we develop a healthier relationship with food?

Perhaps the first step is surprisingly simple:

Love your food.

Eat the large slice of pizza if you genuinely want it. Enjoy a bowl of Greek salad. Eat your comfort food. For me, that comfort food is rice.

And when you eat something indulgent, stop telling yourself that you have done something wrong.

Instead of thinking, “This is unhealthy. I am going to gain weight. I shouldn’t be eating this,” try approaching your food without fear or guilt:

“I am grateful that I have this food. I am going to enjoy it. I will listen to my body and stop when I am satisfied.”

This is not about convincing yourself that fried chicken contains the same nutrients as vegetables, or that positive thinking can magically change the nutritional composition of a meal. It cannot.

Rather, it is about changing the psychological meaning we attach to eating.

If we constantly label food as forbidden, our desire for it can become stronger. If we eat it with guilt, we may end up in a cycle of restriction and overeating. But when we allow ourselves to enjoy food without shame, eating can become a much more peaceful experience.

In psychology, our thoughts, emotions, and behaviours are deeply interconnected. The way we think about food can influence the emotions we experience while eating and, consequently, our eating behaviour.

This is why I believe that sometimes the first thing we need to change is not our diet, but our relationship with our diet.

Interestingly, this idea also reminds me of an ancient Indian practice: praying before eating.

Across many Indian traditions, food is often offered to the Divine before it is consumed. Once offered, it becomes Prasad—something sacred.

Think about what happens psychologically.

The food is no longer merely “food.” It becomes an expression of gratitude.

We pause.

We acknowledge that we have something to eat.

We appreciate the person who prepared it.

We experience gratitude rather than guilt.

And perhaps that emotional transformation is just as important as we realise.

There is also something deeply beautiful about traditional Indian attitudes towards home-cooked food. Food prepared by someone we love often carries an emotional value that cannot be measured in calories, protein, vitamins, or minerals.

A bowl of rice prepared by our mother can feel more comforting than an elaborate three-course meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Why?

Because food is not only chemistry.

Food is memory. Food is culture. Food is love.

A meal prepared with affection can remind us of childhood. It can remind us of home. It can make us feel safe when we are anxious and comforted when we are sad.

Perhaps that is why our relationship with food should not be reduced to numbers on a weighing scale.

Of course, nutrition matters. Our bodies require adequate protein, carbohydrates, fats, vitamins, minerals, fibre, and hydration. We should take care of what we eat.

But taking care of our bodies should not mean being at war with them.

We do not need to fear every carbohydrate, demonise every dessert, or punish ourselves for eating something we enjoy.

The goal should not be to eat perfectly.

The goal should be to eat consciously, nourish ourselves adequately, enjoy our food, and listen to our bodies without allowing guilt to dictate our choices.

Because ultimately, food is supposed to nourish us—not frighten us.

And perhaps the healthiest relationship we can develop with food is one in which we can sit down, take a bite, and simply say:

Shukrana!“I am grateful for this.”

Fallacies of meditation

 Life is unpredictable, and so are human beings. We often perceive people as deceptive, but perhaps they are not inherently so. More often than not, it is the ego that makes us appear shrewd, guarded, and manipulative. A person free from ego is often considered naïve, yet such innocence may be closer to authenticity than cunning ever could be.

According to Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, every human being is driven by certain fundamental needs. At the most basic level lie physiological needs—food, water, sleep, reproduction, and other biological drives. These are often described as our primal or animal instincts, for despite our intellect, humans remain a part of the natural world and share many instincts with other living beings.

While these needs nourish the body and satisfy the conscious mind, there exists another hunger—one that belongs to the soul. This hunger is fulfilled through love or meditation. In many philosophical traditions, the two are seen as different expressions of the same experience: complete presence and dissolution of the ego.

I cannot speak extensively about love, for I am no Lord Byron, nor have I truly experienced it. Perhaps in the age we inhabit, both loving and being loved have become increasingly difficult. So, let us turn our attention to meditation.

What is meditation?

Philosophy tells us that love itself is meditation. Religion describes meditation as communion with the Divine. Psychology defines it as mindfulness—a state of non-judgmental awareness of the present moment. Yogic science, however, often begins with mastery over the breath, using it as a gateway to inner stillness.

With so many perspectives, one naturally wonders: Which definition is correct?

The answer is surprisingly simple. Choose the one that resonates with you. There is no single doorway to stillness.

Before trying to meditate, however, one must understand a simple truth: meditation is not an extraordinary skill, nor is it some mystical achievement reserved for saints. It is certainly not quantum physics. Meditation, at its essence, is the art of doing nothing.

This is perhaps the greatest misconception surrounding meditation. People imagine it to be an exotic, action-oriented practice requiring immense effort. In reality, it is the exact opposite.

Try doing absolutely nothing for just five minutes. Do not entertain thoughts deliberately, do not seek distractions, and do not chase experiences. You may soon realise why the modern world has become fascinated with meditation.

Ironically, the East—where meditation originated—often overlooks what it has always possessed. There is an old saying: “The darkest place is beneath the candlestick.” Sometimes we fail to recognise the greatest treasures simply because they have always been within our reach.

People often say that love is life, and perhaps it is. Yet before accepting that statement, we must first ask: What is love?

I may not know the complete answer, but I know this much: love is not merely an action. If it were, every lover would eventually become exhausted by constantly performing it. Instead, genuine love seems to energise rather than deplete. It is a state of being rather than an act of doing.

Meditation follows the same principle. You do not perform meditation; you simply allow it to happen.

Then comes the inevitable question: How do we meditate?

The answer is almost disappointingly simple—do nothing.

In today’s fast-paced world, doing nothing has become one of the hardest things imaginable.

Yogic science offers a practical method because human beings often distrust simplicity. We tend to believe that if something is valuable, it must also be complicated. Ironically, the simplest practices are often the most transformative.

One classical yogic approach is breath awareness. Some traditions even regard it as a path to enlightenment. Simply observe your breath. Allow your attention to rest upon each inhalation and exhalation. Notice the gentle movement of the abdomen: as you inhale, the stomach expands; as you exhale, it contracts.

Many people will discover, perhaps for the first time, that they have been breathing inefficiently all their lives.

Another equally profound method is even simpler. Whatever you are doing, pause for a moment. Stop. Observe your surroundings without judgment. Feel your breath, your body, the sounds around you, and the present moment itself.

That is mindfulness.

That is meditation.

No form of meditation can truly flourish unless one is receptive, open, and willing to be vulnerable. Meditation gradually dissolves the ego—the greatest obstacle to awareness. It is not the world that harms us as much as our perception of it. As the saying goes, nothing can disturb you until you allow it to.

So embrace meditation, but do not reduce it to a fashionable trend or another performance for social media. Ironically, we experience moments of meditation far more often than we realise.

Imagine being intensely hungry. At that moment, a simple plate of dal chawal may taste far more satisfying than an elaborate pizza. Why? Because your entire being—body, mind, and attention—is fully present with that single experience. There is no distraction, no comparison, no divided awareness.

That complete unity of body, mind, and consciousness is meditation.

Perhaps meditation has never been about escaping life. Perhaps it has always been about meeting life completely, one breath, one moment, and one experience at a time.

Sensitivity is awareness

 Sensitivity is Awareness

One of the greatest deficiencies of modern humanity is the absence of sensitivity—a quintessential quality that defines what it truly means to be human. Although we proudly identify ourselves as human beings, we often fail to cultivate the awareness that gives humanity its deepest meaning.

To understand sensitivity, it is first necessary to distinguish it from sentimentality, two concepts that are frequently used interchangeably despite being fundamentally different. Sentimentality is an emotional reaction driven by attachment, whereas sensitivity is a state of awareness guided by understanding and wisdom.

For example, when someone dies, grief and tears are natural expressions of sentimentality because they arise from emotional attachment. Sensitivity, however, does not deny grief; rather, it enables one to perceive death from a broader perspective. From many spiritual traditions, death is not viewed as an end but as an inevitable transition in the continuous journey of existence. Awareness allows an individual to accept this transition with equanimity instead of becoming completely consumed by anguish. Sensitivity, therefore, is not emotional indifference—it is the ability to respond with understanding rather than unconscious reaction.

The same distinction applies to love. Love itself is not the cause of suffering; attachment and dependency are. When our happiness becomes entirely dependent upon another person, our sense of self gradually diminishes. Expectations increase, fear of loss intensifies, and love may eventually transform into resentment. This is why relationships founded solely on dependency often become fragile. Genuine love, however, is one of the most profound experiences of human life. It flourishes when accompanied by awareness, freedom, and mutual respect rather than possessiveness.

Many people experience loneliness not because they are physically alone but because they remain disconnected from themselves. A person who cannot appreciate their own company constantly seeks external validation to fill an internal void. Self-criticism frequently replaces self-acceptance, causing individuals to overlook the inherent worth of their own existence. Learning to value oneself is not selfishness; it is the foundation of healthy relationships. Only those who are at peace with themselves can truly love another without making that love a source of dependency.

It is often said that we attract what we are. While this statement is not universally true, our level of awareness significantly influences the relationships we cultivate. Individuals who lack self-awareness may repeatedly form relationships characterized by insecurity, dependency, and emotional instability. Personal growth, therefore, begins with becoming conscious of one’s own patterns before attempting to transform others.

Animals often develop strong attachments to their caregivers, whereas human relationships are shaped by far more complex cognitive, emotional, and social processes. Human beings possess the unique capacity for self-reflection, reasoning, and conscious choice. These capacities enable us not only to experience emotions but also to examine and refine them. Sensitivity is therefore not merely emotional intensity; it is the conscious ability to understand emotions without becoming enslaved by them.

One of the most prevalent challenges in contemporary society is relationship breakdown. Upon closer examination, many failed relationships reveal patterns of insecurity, emotional dependence, and lack of self-awareness. When one partner becomes the sole source of identity, purpose, or happiness, the relationship ceases to be balanced. Instead of complementing one another, both individuals become emotionally handicapped by excessive dependency. Healthy relationships are not founded upon possession but upon interdependence, where both individuals retain their individuality while growing together.

This naturally raises an important question: How does one become aware?

Awareness is cultivated through conscious living. Throughout history, enlightened beings such as Mahavira, Krishna, Buddha, and Jesus exemplified extraordinary compassion, equanimity, and wisdom. Their sensitivity arose not from emotional vulnerability but from profound awareness of themselves and reality. Such awareness is nurtured through meditation, self-observation, living fully in the present moment, resilience, adaptability, acceptance, and the willingness to let go of what cannot be controlled.

A central insight of Indian philosophy is the distinction between the Self (Ātman) and the non-self (Anātman). Much of human suffering arises because we attempt to control that which is inherently beyond our control. Even the physical body, which we consider our own, is ultimately composed of the Pañca Mahābhūtas—earth (Prithvi), water (Jala), fire (Agni), air (Vayu), and ether (Akasha). These elements belong to the universe and are merely borrowed for a brief period of existence. Clinging to them as permanent possessions inevitably creates suffering because everything material is subject to change.

The more we attempt to dominate the uncontrollable, the more restless and dissatisfied we become. Awareness teaches us to distinguish between what lies within our sphere of influence—our thoughts, intentions, and actions—and what belongs to the natural order of the universe. Acceptance is not weakness; it is wisdom born of clarity.

Ultimately, sensitivity is far more than emotional expression. It is heightened awareness, conscious perception, compassionate understanding, and the ability to respond wisely rather than react impulsively. A sensitive person is not one who merely feels deeply, but one who sees deeply. As awareness expands, attachment transforms into love, fear into acceptance, and suffering into understanding.

To become truly human is not merely to possess intelligence or emotion, but to cultivate sensitivity. And sensitivity, in its highest form, is awareness.

Impact of brahmari pranayama on post Partum depression

 

Title:

Impact of Pranayama (Bhramari Pranayama) on Women Suffering from Postpartum Depression

Author:

Ishani Singh Bartwal, Student of Psychology and Yoga

Abstract:

The present study examines the effect of pranayama—specifically Bhramari Pranayama (also known as the Humming Bee Breath)—on women experiencing postpartum depression. Six women aged between 26 and 32 years were randomly selected from a yoga and wellness centre and participated in a two-week pranayama intervention. The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale (EPDS), developed by Cox, Holden, and Sagovsky (1987), was administered both before and after the intervention to assess changes in depressive symptoms. Results revealed a significant reduction in EPDS scores following regular practice of Bhramari Pranayama, indicating an improvement in emotional well-being. The findings suggest that Bhramari Pranayama can serve as an effective complementary approach for alleviating symptoms of postpartum depression.

Introduction:

Postpartum depression (PPD) is a prevalent psychological condition that affects many women following childbirth. Although it is common, its symptoms can be distressing and debilitating, impacting both maternal and child well-being. Conventional treatment often involves antidepressant medications, which may produce unwanted side effects or may not be suitable for all women.

In recent years, mind–body interventions such as yoga and pranayama have gained recognition for their therapeutic benefits in managing emotional distress. Among these, Bhramari Pranayama—a breathing technique characterized by gentle humming during exhalation—has been associated with promoting relaxation, reducing anxiety, and balancing the autonomic nervous system.

This study aims to explore whether consistent practice of Bhramari Pranayama can significantly reduce depressive symptoms among women suffering from postpartum depression.

Hypothesis:

Women who practice Bhramari Pranayama consistently for two weeks will show a significant reduction in postpartum depression levels, as reflected by decreased scores on the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale (EPDS).

Participants:

The study involved six women aged between 26 and 32 years, all of whom were experiencing mild to moderate symptoms of postpartum depression. Participants were recruited from a yoga and wellness centre and provided informed consent before participation.

Procedure:

Participants attended daily 30-minute sessions of guided pranayama for two consecutive weeks. Each session primarily focused on Bhramari Pranayama, accompanied by Shanti Path (a traditional Sanskrit peace chant). The sessions were conducted in the morning between 5:00 a.m. and 8:00 a.m. under the supervision of a certified yoga instructor. Participants were encouraged to maintain consistency and report their daily practice experiences.

Measures:

The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale (EPDS) was administered before the beginning of the intervention and after the two-week practice period. The EPDS consists of 10 items assessing emotional well-being, with higher scores indicating greater depressive symptoms.

Results:

Analysis of the pre-test and post-test EPDS scores indicated a notable reduction in depression levels among participants following the two-week pranayama intervention. Women who practiced Bhramari Pranayama consistently reported improved mood, emotional stability, and reduced anxiety symptoms.

Discussion:

The results support the hypothesis that Bhramari Pranayama has a positive impact on reducing postpartum depression. The calming vibrations and deep breathing involved in this practice may stimulate the vagus nerve, enhancing relaxation and reducing stress-related physiological responses.

This aligns with prior research suggesting that yogic breathing exercises improve mood, promote emotional regulation, and balance hormonal activity associated with postnatal changes.

Given its accessibility, safety, and non-pharmacological nature, Bhramari Pranayama can be recommended as a complementary therapy for postpartum women, alongside traditional psychological or medical interventions.

Conclusion:

Regular practice of Bhramari Pranayama for just two weeks led to a significant reduction in postpartum depressive symptoms. This suggests that integrating pranayama into postnatal care routines may enhance mental health and overall well-being among new mothers.

References:

Cox, J. L., Holden, J. M., & Sagovsky, R. (1987). Detection of postnatal depression: Development of the 10-item Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. British Journal of Psychiatry, 150, 782–786.

Brown, R. P., & Gerbarg, P. L. (2005). Sudarshan Kriya yogic breathing in the treatment of stress, anxiety, and depression: Part II—Clinical applications and guidelines. Journal of Alternative and Complementary Medicine, 11(4), 711–717.