An Idea

Food talks to me. It has talked to me at least since I was young enough to have memories. It talks to me all day every day. And I don’t talk back. Until now. 


In these pages, I’m going to write to the food-related voices in my head. Over 30 years later, it’s time that I speak and they listen. 


*   *   *


Have you ever been punched in the face? Have you ever felt the right hook of a fist, straight into the side of your cheek bone? Did the punch knock you to the ground? 


I haven’t actually experienced a punch like that, but I have had a doctor tell me that I had cancer. And I would definitely choose the punch in the face. 


After the metaphoric punch right hook I took when I was 32, I wrote a book about my journey with breast cancer and titled it Hope Is a Good Breakfast. On the first page and at several pages within, I referenced my struggles with food. But I never went there on paper. Maybe I was scared. Maybe I just knew that I couldn’t digest both at once. Pun intended. 


I have now passed the twelfth anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. My daughter, then one, is now 13, and my son, then four, is now 16. I have no evidence of disease. Others may say that I “beat cancer” but I don’t think of it like that at all. “Beating cancer” implies I played a role in the victory, but really, I didn’t. I just had lots of privilege and lots of luck. In a way, I just went along on the bumpy ride because I had no other choice. It’s not exactly heroic of me. 


When I was first diagnosed with cancer and started a blog for updates to my friends and family, my brother purchased the URL TaraBeatsCancer.com. It became a blog read by thousands. He showed me the backend analytics so I could see the locations of my readers. Once we counted and it had reached over 90 countries. That made me proud. I felt valued, heard, and loved. It was a beautiful story. 


All the while, the food voices haunted me. 


You see, this other enemy — food — is not like a punch in the face. Facing it is nothing like facing cancer. Because food is like that kid in middle school with whom you were enamored: that kid who was your best friend one day, only to betray you the next. That kid who you loved and you hated. When you laughed with her, you felt euphoric. But when she spread nasty rumors about you behind your back only a day later, you cried yourself to sleep. You see, the food voices don’t give you the courtesy of a punch straight to the face. Instead, they slice you with a tiny razor day in and day out. You don’t feel the cuts at first. GABS But then you do. And the pain is sharp and dull and constant. Yet, you invite the friend to play again. 


This is an attempt to heal from the countless razor cuts. I know it won’t be the way. Only the Buddha has that. But this is a way — a way to find a voice that I believe (or have to believe) is somehow inside me. It’s my way to make the voices stop and listen to me. It’s my way of finding what to say to them. 


Each chapter is my letter to a voice. I’ll describe the voice, how it talks to me, or at least, how I hear it. Then I will assume that voice will shut its mouth for once and listen to me. And I’ll say what I want to say. 


They say that we don’t write because they know what they think. Instead, we write to figure out what we think. These letters are my way of figuring out what I think. And more importantly, they are my way of figuring out what I want to think, what I can think, and what I hope to think. 


So, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the table. It’s time to eat. 

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