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I like to think of myself as a vegan chef—for a guest list of two or less. I used to cook to entertain my wife, G, with my concoctions. We lived far from anywhere remotely plant-based compliant, so I turned to thousands of YouTube videos on vegan cooking and started creating my own dishes. I never used recipes.
After she passed, people around me grew concerned about my eating habits. The general consensus was that I was slowly dying—from a lack of protein, calcium, and healthy fats. The most hurtful thing anyone ever said to me was, “You don’t have to eat like that anymore—you can eat any old way you want now.”
The truth is, I am slowly dying. That’s kind of the goal. I like to think I’m eating perfectly—until my bloodwork tells a different story. The numbers say I’m still eating some stupid shit. Addiction is powerful. Am I sleep-eating? No. But I do celebrate small wins, with tasty treats, too often—accepting baked goods from kind neighbors, or lingering in coffee shops with vegan pies that G and I used to talk about for days after coming back from the city.
What I really want is to overcome the constant chatter in my mind—the voice that berates me for not being perfect and is often cruel in its judgment. I know I’m not doing everything right, but I’m doing better all the time.
Being kind to myself is new. These days, I express it by making comically fussy, plant-filled dinners. What once started as entertainment for my sweet wife has now become a quiet way of being kind to me.
