Adding atta flour. Kneading. Rolling.
I add far too much potato filling and I fold the edges together to create a ball. Each press with the rolling pin is done with vigour despite the delicate potato mix inside.
Making an aloo paratha may sound like a simple task, but during the height of my disordered eating, I would never have been able to do it.
I spent years spiralling, dealing with bad body image, and sometimes avoiding food altogether.
Thankfully, I’ve now fallen back in love with food – and it’s thanks to my partner and my mental health recovery after lockdown.
Disordered eating reared its ugly head for me at the start of the pandemic – but I first experienced it in my teens. I felt like I knew what I was doing when I was younger – limiting my food in order to feel good about my body.
But I didn’t realise that it was happening to replace the depressive thoughts I was living with.
When my long-distance relationship fell apart in 2020, at the age of 36, I went back into depression. I stopped eating – in fact, I rarely moved and was paralysed in my bedroom.
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My body merely felt like an inconvenience. My brain was working overtime, thinking about my world imploding, and I believed there was no point in caring for myself.
I watched as my body slowly started fading.
I’d post a selfie to Instagram and watch people comment on how great I looked – this only exacerbated my disordered eating and I kept trying to attain a smaller and smaller figure for more validation.
It was easy to hide during lockdown too because, although I lived with someone, they never came out of their room or interacted with me, so no one witnessed my spiral.
Occasionally, I would make myself instant noodles, and wolf it down in a frenzy. Immediately I would feel guilty about the pleasure of consuming food and convince myself I shouldn’t eat for a while.
This pattern continued on and off, for almost two years.
My journey into falling back in love with food came hand-in-hand with my mental health recovery.
As lockdown ended, the comfort I found in my solitude with my disordered eating suddenly became visible. I had to go back to eating at restaurants – something my friends and I regularly did before Covid.
I was no longer alone with thoughts – being surrounded by people meant I couldn’t hide anymore and my experiences with food became more real.
In those circumstances, I was in a way, shamed into recovery from acknowledging that I couldn’t hide in my little destructive world, but it also came from my new partner too.
I’ve known my partner for around six years – as queer South Asian people, we’ve worked in the same spaces and ended up becoming acquaintances. Last year that changed, and we formed a stronger bond, which turned to love.
They shared a similar journey in their mental health and gently allowed me to feel everything I was feeling. We tend to open up and speak when we feel anxiety, instead of letting it fester inside us.
There was a moment when we discussed eating plans and I felt uneasy about spending a full day of food. Instead of ignoring it, I told them exactly how it made me feel.
We spoke about it regularly, until I didn’t feel ashamed when eating. When I finally let go of the shame, I let go of my anxiety.
They fed me my favourite dish – saag paneer – on our first date, they let me cook for them, and listened to any concerns I had.
My partner truly made eating safe again.
Our shared background means they also understood the cultural importance of food.
And when I fell back in love with food, that’s what I really fell in love with my Indian roots.
This love has cemented a connection with my culture; those memories of my grandma opening pea pods, the way my mother makes rice.
A big part of Indian culture is sharing food and feeding others – I would go to aunties’ houses as a child and be fed until I couldn’t move.
I’m proud to say that – after over 20 years of struggling with disordered eating – I now have that same urge to feed and be fed. Cooking has become an important way of showing my love.
One day my dad asked me if I could make him daal ‘but not mushy like mum makes it’.
I made the tarka with spices as a base, and added the lentils and tomatoes. ‘Not too mushy,’ he kept saying. We sat together and smiled at how simple it was to make.
I eat for myself too. I devour the spices, various pulses and vegetables that create a taste many people get a take-away to experience.
Growing up, I would hear stories from my family about life back in Panjab – where they grow sugar canes and wheat – stories about making flour for our roti and sugar for our tea. I remembered these stories and they now make me value what I cook and put in my body.
On top of that, my body has changed through this recovery and I’m finally beginning to embrace it. I don’t shy away from eating large meals, or having more than one meal a day – something I couldn’t previously imagine.
My time in the kitchen is sacred – I cook with an intention to be healthier and to find joy. But I also find that joy in the food’s connection to my culture.
It took a while to get here – and there are still moments I have anxiety over it – but I’m in a healthier space and have a deeper connection with my family history.
It’s not just about my health, it’s about joy. And I think I’ve found it again.
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