FOOD & MY BRAIN
For nearly four decades, I was a sheep, blindly following diet culture’s herd mentality. I counted points, logged calories in apps, and readied my restaurant menu order, even before walking through the doors. I clung to the hope that the next diet would finally unlock lasting health and happiness, and I tried to control my body by controlling food.
Over time, points, calories, and “good” and “bad” foods became a constant tug-of-war between control and chaos. I told myself it was discipline, but really it was just mental noise. I’ve been overweight for a long time. The weight didn’t come on from a hard year or a loss; it accumulated through seasons of stress, boredom, and the relentless background chatter in my brain. Thinking about food, planning it, avoiding it, and negotiating with it built into a cacophony that never seemed to quiet. For years, that was simply my normal.
That cycle defined me. I might have stayed on that yo-yo rollercoaster, but something shifted when I went back to school at 50 to earn my psych degree. School became more than an academic pursuit; it became a mirror that showed me that dieting was never the answer for me. As I moved through my program, I started to see a clear pattern in the papers I researched and wrote, always circling back to how food influenced my brain, body, and mood.
The science stopped feeling abstract. As I studied how protein provides the amino acids that build serotonin and dopamine, shaping mood and motivation, I stopped treating it as theoretical information and began to ask what this meant to me. I learned that stable blood sugar and hormones regulate emotional steadiness and satiety, and I couldn’t ignore that I had watched my diabetic parents struggle with mood highs and lows for decades without applying that awareness to myself. I had to look honestly at the ultra-processed foods I was eating, the poor sleep I was normalizing, and the chronic inflammation I was living with. The real epiphany came when I understood that stress elevates cortisol, increasing cravings and fat storage, and I finally realized that my body wasn’t broken but adaptive.
That realization changed everything. For years, obnoxious doctors, trainers, or social media reels insisted it was “calories in/calories out,” and that I simply lacked willpower. What I really lacked was understanding. I hadn’t yet grasped that food didn’t have to be only emotional coping; it could be nourishment that supported my brain and resilience. I know some of you might be thinking, “No shit, Sherlock,” but truly, it was mind-blowing to me. When I began eating with that awareness, I noticed subtle but powerful shifts. My mood steadied, my focus improved, and I no longer felt exhausted all day.
For a while, that awareness felt like enough. Then a prescription for a GLP-1 entered my world, and the background chatter of food noise stopped. It felt like winning the lottery or discovering a cure. If that sounds hyperbolic, trust me, when you’ve lived with constant food noise for decades, its silence feels miraculous, spacious, and calm. What I didn’t anticipate was that the quiet would carry its own tension.
The silence didn’t just quiet cravings; it also quieted hunger itself. I barely eat now. The medication makes my hunger cues faint and mutes my desire to eat or even drink water. I find I have to remind myself to consume enough protein, vitamins, and calories to support the very brain and body I care so deeply about protecting. I’ve worked hard to move away from restriction and toward nourishment, and I don’t want to swing from overeating due to stress and boredom to undereating in control. It would make me feel disconnected from my body again, only this time in the opposite direction.
Even with this tension, I’m grateful for the relief from food obsession and more aware than ever that biology matters. I keep reminding myself that nourishment still matters even when hunger’s volume is now at a whisper. The truth is, I don’t have this figured out. Most days, I feel full, heavy, and uninterested in food, as if I’ve finished a Thanksgiving dinner twice. That sensation makes it difficult to trust my body’s signals. Am I nourished, or just suppressed? Am I listening, or overriding? Is quieting the food noise worth the risk of not eating enough to support my health?
With those questions in mind, I’m experimenting with intention rather than control, restriction, or force. I try to prioritize protein, and I mean try. I aim for small meals instead of waiting for hunger cues that may never fully arrive, learning to fuel my brain proactively rather than reactively, and to approach hunger with curiosity instead of judgment.
These are the questions I keep returning to:
If my appetite is loud, what is it asking for?
If my appetite is quiet, what might it still need?
If stress, boredom, hormones, or medication are shaping my hunger, how can I respond with awareness instead of shame?
I offer these questions to anyone who knows food noise, knowing that health is rarely a straight line but an ongoing adjustment, a recalibration, and most of all, an act of paying attention. Right now, I’m learning how to nourish a body that no longer shouts, and maybe you’re learning how to nourish one that does, in which case I’d welcome the conversation.
