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.”
