There is a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to feed yourself “properly” all the time.
The mental checklist. The guilt. The endless stream of information online telling you what you should and should not be eating. The pressure to meal prep perfectly, buy the “right” products, avoid the “bad” foods, optimise your gut health, hit your protein goals, drink more water, eat less sugar, spend less money, and somehow still have enough energy left to function as a human being.
Most of the time, society teaches us that people struggle with nutrition because they lack discipline. But the more I experienced within my own life, and the more people I spoke with, the more I realised that most people are not lazy or unmotivated.
They are overwhelmed.
And honestly, I understand that deeply because I have been there too.
My relationship with food was never simple. I spent years overweight, and later obese, throughout my teenage and adult years. Like many people, I grew up surrounded by diet culture. Weight Watchers, fad diets, calorie counting, “good” foods and “bad” foods, guilt around eating, guilt around not exercising enough, guilt around simply taking up space. I experienced body dysmorphia, yo-yo dieting, and that exhausting cycle of trying to be “good” with food before inevitably feeling like I had failed again.
At the same time, I was also navigating chronic pain and injury. Torn fascia eventually meant I could not continue ward nursing the way I once imagined I would. I watched people move through hospitals, medications, procedures, and declining health while often never truly being supported to understand the role nourishment and gut health could play in their wellbeing. I watched my father’s health decline with diabetes, and over time I became increasingly aware of how disconnected many conversations around health had become from the realities of everyday life.
Pregnancy and motherhood again shifted something in me even further. Experiencing gestational diabetes forced me to look at food, health, and my body through another lens entirely. And once little miss joined us, I realised I did not want to pass disordered thinking around food and bodies onto my youngest daughter as she grows up. I did not want her inheriting the shame so many of us were taught.
After years of struggling physically and emotionally with my health, I eventually underwent gastric bypass surgery. And while many people see surgery as “the easy way out,” the reality is far more complicated than that. Surgery comes with its own physical, nutritional, emotional, and psychological challenges.
I still remember the early weeks post-surgery where I was only managing around 300–500 calories a day. My intake was incredibly restricted. Half to one cup of meat and vegetables three times a day. No dairy, no grains, no nuts or seeds. Everything felt clinical, controlled, and hyper-monitored while I was simultaneously trying to recover physically and emotionally from major surgery.
Even drinking water was painful.
Because of the surface tension against my newly formed gastric pouch, plain water felt physically uncomfortable to stomach. I remember adding a small splash of regular lemon cordial simply to help break the tension and make hydration manageable, only to be told to switch to diet cordial because it fit the nutritional “rules” better.
And honestly, that moment stayed with me.
Not because the advice was inherently malicious, but because it highlighted how disconnected nutrition advice can sometimes become from the actual lived experience of the person receiving it.
At a time where I was barely consuming enough energy to support recovery, the focus shifted toward whether the cordial was “diet” or not, rather than recognising that I was simply trying to find a way to comfortably hydrate my body after major surgery.
That was one of many moments where I began questioning how often nutrition conversations become so focused on rules, perfection, and technicalities that they lose sight of the human being sitting in front of them.
And if you are currently navigating this stage of post-bariatric surgery yourself, please know you are not alone. I have actually created a resource around this experience and you can find it here.
At university, we are taught evidence-based foundations, and those absolutely matter, but real life is much messier than a textbook. People are living with chronic illness, fatigue, financial stress, pain, neurodivergence, parenting responsibilities, shift work, executive dysfunction, burnout, and decision fatigue. So many people are trying to nourish themselves while already running on empty.
That is why I moved to study Nutrition and Dietetic Medicine.
I wanted to create a space where nutrition feels more human. Less fear-based. Less performative. Less obsessed with perfection.
A space that cuts through the noise and helps people find realistic, sustainable ways to nourish themselves within their actual lives and capacities, not their idealised lives. Not their “perfect wellness routine.” Their real life.
Because reducing stress around food matters just as much as the food itself.
For many people, meals are not just meals. They are constant decisions. Decisions about money, time, energy, preferences, health conditions, children, routines, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and mental bandwidth. The mental load around food is enormous, particularly for the people carrying households on their shoulders while also trying to care for themselves.
Sometimes nourishment looks like a beautiful home-cooked meal. Sometimes it looks like cereal for dinner because that is all you have capacity for that day. And honestly, I think we deserve to remove the shame from that experience.
Instead of asking:
“How do I eat perfectly?”
I want people asking:
“How can I support myself with what I currently have available to me?”
Somewhere along the way, food stopped simply being food. It became “good” or “bad,” “healthy” or “unhealthy,” “clean” or “cheating.” And I think that has done incredible damage to the way people relate to nourishment.
Food is not a moral obligation. It is one of the foundations of life.
I also think convenience foods deserve far less shame than they receive. Frozen vegetables, microwave rice, rotisserie chicken, tinned tuna, supermarket shortcuts, meal kits, and snack foods can genuinely help people nourish themselves when life feels hard. Nutrition support should not only exist for people with endless time, money, energy, and capacity.
One of the biggest things I believe in is understanding what someone’s life actually looks like before giving advice. Not everyone has the same access to food, education, finances, physical ability, support systems, or mental capacity. Yet so much nutrition messaging still pushes the “eat less and move more” narrative without acknowledging chronic illness, hormones, blood glucose regulation, gut health, disability, trauma, stress, or the realities of modern life.
And when advice ignores those realities, people are often left feeling like they are failing.
I do not want my practice to be another space that makes people feel guilty. I want it to feel supportive. Educational without being overwhelming. Evidence-informed without losing humanity. Practical without shame.
Because I truly do not believe people should need a bachelors in nutrition to feel capable of feeding themselves.
Nutrition should not feel like punishment. It should not feel like fear. It should not feel like you are constantly failing some invisible test.
It should feel supportive. Flexible. Sustainable. Human.
And sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is stop trying to be perfect long enough to actually listen to what our bodies, lives, and capacities are asking for.