I was in the kitchen prepping a batch of breakfast biscuits. Stuffed with eggs, sausage, and cheese. Just something I hoped would make our mornings smoother.
Maddie peeked in, scrunched her nose, and said, “Smells good. Looks disgusting. I’m not eating that.”
I pursed my lips and nodded. It’s something I do when I feel something deeper brewing. A quiet pause to check in with myself. Scan what’s on my mind and in my heart.
She walked off. I stayed in the kitchen, left to sit with what she said and how it made me feel.
Because even though it was funny, and it was, it also brought something up. A deeper discomfort. My own childhood and the anxiety I carry around food. The sharp tones. The pressure to eat what was served. The comparisons to siblings who didn’t complain.
I realize now that it wasn’t just about food. It was about shame. And shame stays with you.
That’s the thing about parenting. Our children bump into our wounds without even trying. But we get to decide what we do next.
This time, I chose to do it differently. I told her OK. She could have something else.
Later, she overheard her dad and baby brother raving in the kitchen. She came back.
“Mom, these are delicious. Can you make more?”
She tried them on her own. No pressure. No guilt. No shame. Just curiosity, choice, and a little freedom.
As a kid, I didn’t get that. I was told to eat anyway. To be grateful. To clean my plate. But what I learned wasn’t gratitude, it was how to ignore my own signals.
So now, I’m doing it differently. I’m listening. I’m making room for voice and choice. I’m inviting, not insisting.
Because food isn’t just about what’s on the plate. It’s about how safe you feel sitting at the table. It’s about knowing your feelings matter, too.
And in our home, even when breakfast smells good but looks “disgusting,” that safety still stands.