Let’s talk about cancer.
In my case – lung cancer. Bad.
Not so bad that I didn’t make it – obviously 😉
But it wasn’t clear in the beginning if I would have many more years left.
And still … It was not as hard as going through the experience of someone slowly stealing my autonomy.
There was no surgery. No chemo. No diagnosis, no dramatic call.
Just a daily erosion of self.
And a body that finally started to scream – with reaching for food, then pain, later panic.
I had a problem with food for most of my life. And as most woman – I tried to solve it. Religiously.
Where it starts when: the need to belong
With 14 years I was slim and smart and most of the times like: World, here I am, what do you want?
That changed quickly. My mother married again and I found out that I was not invited. After that I gained weight, quickly. Which was followed by bullying and making fun of like teenagers do. So I tried to lose weight.
Not that much in hindsight – 8 kilogram. When I look back I can only shake my head for opening the doors to hell for 8 kilogram.
That’s a turkey on Thanksgiving, not more!
But as the research suggests, it’s the entry point for most eating disorders or problems – however you want to call this thing for yourself. This diet changed my „normal“ eating completely.
I just could not get back. Ever.
But the underlying problem I really had was not food, not my weight, not my willpower. It was one simple fact that covered everything else like: I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be included. To be „a part of …“.
With 14 years I didn’t know that. I just ate.
I didn’t even realize there was a reason for eating other than hunger. But many years later, pictures of me told a very clear story. How I looked before the wedding and how I looked several months later.
Still it took me decades to understand that I was not weak or bad or unmotivated. And that biology can simply mean: Listen girl, you can’t fight the fact that starving your body does not help – at all.
We humans are not meant to starve. We are meant to nourish ourselves properly.
When you reach for food and it’s not about hunger
This time, it wasn’t about hunger. It was about helplessness. We are meant to eat. To enjoy. To feel safe around food. But not when it replaces love, safety, or belonging.
And that’s where it often starts. Not with the big trauma. But with the small, daily dissonance.
A snide comment. A little dig. A subtle crossing of your boundary. You don’t yell. You don’t even flinch. You just keep going. And then you see a leftover. Or a Twix.
And you reach for food – not fully aware of why.
It’s not hunger. It’s a response.
But you don’t notice that either, not at first. Because nobody taught you that this is regulation. Nobody told you that eating can become a way to say: “I can’t say it out loud, but I feel it.”
Instead, you think: Don’t be so sensitive. Maybe I’m just too critical. I always take things too personally. But words can have a huge impact on our wellbeing – and how we eat.
And while you try to adjust to make it work, to not be the one who overreacts – your body does the only thing it can: It keeps you going. With food. With patterns. With pain.
It’s not willpower. It’s survival.
And the real heartbreak? You don’t even know you’re fighting. You think you’re just weak. Or lazy. Or dramatic. But your body is trying to get through something it doesn’t know how to survive.
That something has a name. It’s called helplessness. Or: the absence of choice.
Not being heard and being taken seriously.
Not having anyone who says: “Wait. This is too much.”
And in that state, when everything feels out of reach – your body reaches for what is within reach.
A bite. A bar. A pattern.
Not because you want to lose control – but because there’s no space to stay in control.
This isn’t emotional eating.
It’s your nervous system saying: “This is unbearable.”
And it’s not your fault if nobody taught you what to do instead.
What to do when the urge to reach for food takes over
So what do you do, when your nervous system screams – and nobody hears it but you?
You learn to listen. Not perfectly. Not instantly. But enough.
Just enough to notice what happens inside, before your hand reaches out.
Enough to stay with yourself for one more breath.
And then another.
That’s not discipline. That’s regulation.
It’s what every child should learn. And what every woman deserves to re-learn – especially when she’s had to survive too much for too long.
Not by fixing herself or by ignoring her truth. But by finally making room for what’s real.
And then deciding from there.
This is what I teach. Not food rules. Not mindset hacks.
But precision in perception. So you can feel what’s yours and finally stop fighting what was never yours to begin with.
So even if it feels like there’s no choice – what if you try one moment of choosing?
Not to eat.
But to listen.
Not to please.
But to feel.
What if the real “I do something good for myself” was not shoving something into your mouth – but using it?
Speaking. Sensing. Saying what’s on your mind, even if it doesn’t please anyone.
What if you simply think: I don’t have to do this.
Not this way.
Not at all.
I wish that for us. That we try. And see what it feels like.
Why trust matters more than food plans
And this is how it starts.
Not with goals or plans. But with one moment of staying in touch. No fixing. No pressure. Just noticing what happens when you don’t run.
This is not easy.
But it’s possible.
And it’s how we start to change the pattern.
One regulated moment. One restored breath.
One tiny decision to stay with yourself.
That’s how you rebuild trust, not with others, but with your own body. And once this trust grows, food becomes just food again.
Not a battleground. Not a secret. Not a substitute.
Just food.
Why is trust necessary?
Because without it, you can’t even say: Yes. This is what I feel. You’ll override it. Push it down. Rationalize it away. Trust is what allows you to name your own experience. To say: “This is happening – and it matters.”
And once you can trust what you feel, you can stop automatically reaching for food when things get too much.
You can start setting boundaries – with yourself, and with others.
You can say: “This doesn’t feel right. I’m not doing it this way anymore.”
Even if you don’t know yet what the new way looks like.
Because trust is not about being certain. It’s about allowing yourself to improvise – to walk before you know how, to take shaky steps and say:
“This is my life. And I fucking want to live it my way.”
If you feel something stirring in you right now – not as a plan, not as pressure, but as a quiet yes – I’d love to hear from you.
Not to fix you or teach you. But to walk beside you, while you start trusting yourself again.
You don’t have to do it alone.
You don’t have to do it perfectly.
But you get to do it in your way.
In your rhythm. In your words.
And if that’s something you want – I’m here.
