I’m not the kind of mom who stashes bottles of wine in the pantry or lights up a joint after the kids are tucked in (though I totally respect moms who do). I don’t rage-clean, hit the gym, or have a therapist to help me navigate the wild ride of parenting, work, marriage, and life.
Growing up, my family was what you might call the working poor. My mom juggled three jobs and managed our household with a stoic demeanor. There were winters when decent meals felt like a luxury compared to staying warm, and we often subsisted on thin soups and the occasional school lunch. I vividly remember one winter day, alone in our chilly house, feeling the gnawing hunger in my stomach.
At just 10 years old, I couldn’t whip up anything substantial on my own, so I turned to my mother’s well-worn copy of The Good Housekeeping Cookbook. I flipped through the pages filled with mouthwatering pictures of cakes, roasts, and fancy tea sets, pretending to feast. I imagined my empty belly being filled with those sumptuous home-cooked delights.
That memory still haunts me today as I reach for a gooey cinnamon roll after surviving my kids’ nightly chaos. Or when I nervously crunch through a half-box of grape popsicles while balancing the checkbook. After a particularly grueling workday, I often treat myself and my family to pizza for dinner.
I’m an emotional eater.
Some might label me as having a food addiction, and honestly, I wouldn’t argue with that on certain days. When I indulge like this, it’s not the same as regular eating—just like sipping wine isn’t the same as guzzling water. I seek relief, a high. It’s no coincidence that I reach for sugary treats instead of carrot sticks. I crave that sugar rush, that feeling of fullness that makes me feel alive.
I eat until I’m almost uncomfortably stuffed because that’s when the emotional release I’m after kicks in, sometimes even leading to a euphoric state. It feels as if I’m floating.
And guess what? I’m not alone. Harvard Medical School reports that about a quarter of Americans rate their stress level at 8 or higher on a 10-point scale, with stress directly linked to weight gain. In the short term, stress suppresses appetite due to a hormone called corticotropin hormone, but prolonged stress leads to another hormone, cortisol, which ramps up appetite and urges us to eat.
That’s why health gurus like Linda Thompson (I own all her workout DVDs, just so you know) shine as beacons of hope for people like me. She emphasizes not just physical fitness but emotional well-being as the key to overcoming the vicious cycle of emotional eating. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve collapsed in tears during her workouts when she talks about battling emotional demons, as eating is my way to silence them. That woman understands me!
For me, emotional eating spirals out of control, fluctuating with my stress levels. In my family, we prioritize health, which adds to my shame when I binge-eat during tough times. We avoid fast food, teach our kids about fresh, locally sourced meals, and emphasize healthy portions. Yet at night, when they’re not watching, I find myself sneaking handfuls of popcorn or devouring a quart of ice cream, hoping the stress will fade away.
I’m not an emotional eater because I lack self-control; I’m an emotional eater because I struggle to manage my feelings in a healthy way. I’m not lazy or unproductive, and I know the value of a balanced diet. This battle feels like a roller coaster, and I’m still trying to find my way off. Like many, I’m a work in progress, and I want others to know they’re not alone on this emotional journey. For more insights on navigating emotional eating, check out this blog post, which dives deeper into the topic.
In summary, being an emotional eater stems from the challenges of managing stress and feelings rather than a lack of discipline. It’s a journey many face, and recognizing this can be the first step toward healthier habits.