Food Therapy has become my sanctuary, my quiet rebellion, and my tender act of self-preservation. I don’t step into the kitchen to show off my skills, to outdo anyone’s recipe, or to collect applause for the prettiest plating. I cook to breathe. I cook to silence the noise outside and soothe the storm within. For me, pots and pans aren’t about performance — they are about regulation, balance, and survival.
There’s a certain honesty in chopping onions when your mind feels scattered, or in stirring soup when your heart is too heavy for words. Cooking grounds me. It regulates my emotions, reminds me of my roots, and keeps me tethered when life feels like it’s running too fast. It is not for Instagram likes, or to dazzle guests, but for the sacred space it creates between me and myself.
In this piece, I want to share five powerful and honest reasons why I cook. Not because I’m trying to impress anyone, but because Food Therapy keeps me whole.
Cooking Regulates My Mind When Nothing Else Can
There are days when the world feels too heavy — deadlines pressing, messages unanswered, emotions spilling everywhere. My mind becomes restless, bouncing from one thought to another, unable to sit still. On those days, stepping into the kitchen is like slipping into a ritual that quiets the noise.
Chopping vegetables has its own rhythm. Dice, slice, repeat. It gives me something concrete to hold onto when my thoughts feel abstract and scattered. Measuring rice or seasoning stew forces me to be present. Cooking is my grounding cord, pulling me out of overthinking and back into the simplicity of one task at a time.
This is the heartbeat of Food Therapy — the way it regulates emotions through action. I don’t need to meditate on a mat to find calm (though that has its place). Sometimes, the meditation is in the garlic sizzling in oil, the steam rising from a pot, the aroma of thyme filling the air.
When I tell people I cook to regulate, they sometimes laugh. But it’s true — no therapist has ever helped me untangle my thoughts as quickly as kneading dough for bread has. Food doesn’t just nourish the body; it untangles the mind. And that’s why I keep cooking, even on my hardest days.
Cooking Connects Me Back to My Body
So much of life in this modern, grind-obsessed world disconnects us from our own bodies. We eat on the go, we scroll instead of savoring, and we numb ourselves with fast food that fills but doesn’t heal. But when I cook, I return to my body.
Peeling yam or rinsing beans is not glamorous work, but it grounds me in the physical. My hands get busy, my back bends, my senses wake up — taste, smell, touch, sight, sound. Every step of cooking is sensory, and it reminds me that I’m not just a floating mind, I’m a whole human.
That’s the thing about Food Therapy: it calls me home to myself. When I stir a pot of jollof rice, I’m not only creating a meal, I’m regulating my pace. When I taste the soup and adjust the salt, I’m listening to my body’s cues. It’s an intimate check-in — am I hungry? Am I tired? Am I craving comfort or energy? Cooking gives me answers.
It’s not about cooking for others to praise me. It’s about the way food bridges the gap between mind and body. When I plate that meal and finally sit down, I feel a quiet alignment. Like, for the first time in the day, my body and my mind are breathing the same rhythm.
Cooking is My Memory Keeper
There are recipes I make that feel like time travel. Egusi soup takes me back to childhood Sundays. Puff-puff frying in oil reminds me of street corners after church. Even a simple pot of beans connects me to my grandmother’s kitchen, where she stirred slowly and with patience that only comes from years of living.
This is another layer of Food Therapy — cooking regulates my emotions because it carries memory. When I cook, I am never alone. I am surrounded by the voices, hands, and recipes of those who came before me. I may be standing in a tiny apartment kitchen abroad, but when the pot is bubbling with pepper soup, I’m home.
Food keeps me from forgetting. It tells me who I am when the world tries to make me forget. It regulates my identity. And in the diaspora, that is priceless.
Cooking, for me, isn’t about impressing anyone with heritage meals. It’s about carrying my people with me. A spoonful of okra stew isn’t just food; it’s history. It’s resilience. It’s therapy stitched into flavor. And it reminds me that I belong somewhere, even if I’m far away.
Cooking Teaches Me Patience and Balance
Life pushes us into constant hurry. Fast food, fast cars, fast everything. But the kitchen resists that pace. Rice will take the time it needs. Beans will soften only when they are ready. Bread will rise at its own rhythm. Cooking is a teacher, and patience is its lesson.
Food Therapy regulates me because it slows me down. I can’t rush stew without burning it. I can’t demand yam fries in three minutes flat. Cooking reminds me that some things in life require presence, not shortcuts. It balances my restless energy and teaches me surrender.
Even in the act of seasoning, cooking teaches balance. Too much salt ruins everything. Too much pepper burns the tongue. But the right balance brings harmony. That lesson spills over into my life. It whispers: don’t oversaturate yourself, don’t run too fast, don’t drown in extremes.
Cooking, in its quiet wisdom, regulates me by making me slow, deliberate, and gentle with myself. And honestly, that’s worth more than any applause I’d ever get for impressing a dinner guest.
Cooking Gives Me Soft Power in a Hard World
The world outside often feels harsh — demands, expectations, survival battles. But when I step into the kitchen, I reclaim a little power. I decide the flavors. I set the pace. I create nourishment from scratch. And that control, however small, regulates me in big ways.
This is the heart of Food Therapy — it gives me soft power. I don’t need to shout, fight, or strive in that moment. I just need to cook. It’s resistance, but it’s also rest. It’s a way of saying: I can make joy, I can create warmth, I can sustain myself.
The rebellion is in the refusal to perform. I don’t cook to post perfect plates online. I don’t cook to gain claps at the table. I cook to regulate my spirit in a world that tries to scatter it. That’s my soft power, my quiet strength.
And in those moments when I finally sit down with a plate of food I made for myself — simple, nourishing, unpretentious — I feel healed. Not healed in the sense of everything being fixed, but in the sense of everything being manageable. And that is everything.
Food Therapy is My Regulator, Not My Performance
At the end of the day, cooking for me is not about reputation or recognition. It’s about restoration. Food Therapy is my self-care, my memory keeper, my grounding tool. It regulates me when nothing else can. It connects me back to my body when I drift. It carries the taste of my ancestors into modern life. It slows me down when I rush. It gives me soft power when I feel powerless.
So no, I don’t cook to impress. I cook to live softer, steadier, and truer. I cook because food is more than survival — it is medicine, it is rhythm, it is memory, it is rebellion. And through this ritual, I find a way to stay human in a world that often forgets softness.
Food Therapy is not about applause. It is about regulation. And in that, it is everything.
