The Meals No One Asked For

In my family, food was love. It wasn’t said out loud. It was ladled onto plates.

The more food on the table, the more love in the room.

Whenever I came home from college or for the holidays, my mother would light up: “I’ll make your favorite.” That was her way of saying I love you, I missed you, I see you—even if she could never say the words. Cooking was a labor of love, and I inherited that instinct without question.

When I moved away, I tried to recreate that feeling. I’d host “family dinners” for friends, stretching whatever money I had to feed whoever was around. But I didn’t have much back then. I’d wander the grocery store aisles stressed out—calculating every dollar, negotiating which ingredients I could leave out, always trying to make something stretch.

Over time, what began as joy became burden. The groceries. The cooking. The cleaning. By the time dinner was ready, I was too exhausted to enjoy it. My love language had become a silent expectation—an unpaid job I gave myself, hoping someone would say thank you, or just notice how much it took out of me.

Maybe that’s what motherhood feels like—laying all your feelings out on the table only to be met with indifference.

When I was dating, it felt the same. I’d cook elaborate meals hoping it would spark connection. Sometimes they liked it. Sometimes they didn’t. But the silence after the meal always felt the same.

Looking back, I see the pattern. I was giving everything of me. But no one asked for it. And no one stayed for it either.

Maybe my cooking wasn’t that great. Or maybe I didn’t love myself enough to believe I was worthy of more than scraps in return.

Because when you grow up learning that your happiness only matters if everyone else is happy first, you start to believe that love is earned—not given. That your job is to serve, not receive. And that showing up empty is normal.

That’s the version of me that entered every relationship: the one holding the lower hand. Grateful to be chosen. Willing to shrink, sacrifice, over-serve. I let it happen. Because I didn’t know any better.

But then, things shifted.

Life took me away—literally. I traveled, moved, rebuilt. I stopped cooking altogether. I stopped hosting family meals. I wasn’t trying to be chosen anymore. I was just trying to find myself.

And eventually, I did.

When I got married, I thought love would finally look the way I imagined: big meals, shared appreciation, full bellies, fuller hearts.

But my husband preferred frozen meals.

At first, I was devastated. How could someone who loved me… not love my food?

I couldn’t process it. I took it personally. I internalized it. It wasn’t just about food—it was about being seen, being cherished, being worth the work. I had equated cooking with love for so long that anything less felt like rejection.

But what I’ve come to realize is this: Love doesn’t always show up the way you expect it to.

Sometimes love looks like showing up consistently. Like laughter in the hallway. Like quiet support, not grand gestures. My husband may not love my cooking—but he loves me. Not because I serve. But because I am.

That has taken years to learn.

So now, when I cook, I do it differently. Not to win affection. Not to earn my place at the table. But because I want to.

Because I matter.