Food, Family & Finding My Way: A Lifelong Journey with Nourishment

Food has always been a constant in my life—not just as fuel, but as tradition, emotion, identity and even pressure. From formal childhood meals in hotel dining rooms to crate-loads of produce brought home from farmer's markets, food shaped the rhythm of my upbringing. But my relationship with it hasn’t always been easy.

It took years—and several personal evolutions—for me to find balance, understand my body’s needs and strip away old food beliefs that no longer served me. Today, I find joy in mindful eating, gratitude for nourishment and a deep commitment to how I choose to feed my family.

Hotel Tables and Multi-Course Expectations

Some of my earliest memories involve the quiet, echoey glamour of hotel restaurants. My father worked in hospitality, and because of his job, we spent a lot of time in hotels. Meals weren’t rushed—they were events. There were no quick snacks or simple suppers; instead, every outing was a full multi-course affair. You were expected to eat everything—whether you liked it or not—and always finish with dessert. Afterwards: coffee. Never with desert but AFTER.

To a child who didn’t particularly like meat and wasn’t always hungry enough for that kind of structure, it was a lot. I learned to override my fullness cues, eating more out of expectation than hunger. That early disconnection from my body’s signals lingered for years.

The Kitchen at Home: Quiet Strength and Constant Effort

When my father was at work—which, truthfully, was most of the time—my mother ran the kitchen. Despite him being a trained chef, she was the one who cooked our daily meals, all while raising three children and juggling a thousand other tasks. She didn’t love cooking, but she was good at it—really good. Looking back, I realise how much care she put into trying to cook meals we would actually enjoy.

Our Sundays revolved around a roast. It was ritualistic. My father, even when home, didn’t cook it—but he would critique it. So when he did compliment my mother’s roast, we knew she’d created something exceptional.

Our house was often filled with crates of food my father brought back from the markets: boxes of seasonal fruit, and when in season, overflowing bags of cherries (my favourite), bundles of herbs and cuts of meat I didn’t want to touch. At the time, I saw it all as normal—even tedious. Now I look back and see abundance. I see care. I see a privilege I didn’t fully understand.

University: A Turning Point in Self-Understanding

It wasn’t until university that I began to examine my body and how it responded to what I ate. Like many students, I was exposed to new ideas—and finally had the autonomy to experiment. Cutting out wheat was the first major shift. The difference was immediate: no more bloating, less fatigue, and a clearer mind. Back then, “gluten-free” wasn’t mainstream, so explaining my choice often invited confusion or even ridicule. Still, I stuck with it—and I’m so glad I did.

Over the years, I started cutting out sugar too, eventually transitioning to a strict ketogenic diet. I also began fasting regularly, experimenting with longer windows between meals and tuning into how my body responded. It was freeing—but I can now admit that I probably overdid it. Biohacking can easily tip into obsession if we’re not careful.

Over time, I also came to believe—deeply—that food is medicine. So many modern ailments, I believe, stem from chronic inflammation triggered by what we eat. This belief was only strengthened when my father was diagnosed with cancer. I immersed myself in research, learning everything I could about nutrition and healing. I came across studies suggesting sugar feeds cancer cells and explored the anti-inflammatory potential of various diets.

There was so much resistance to this knowledge—dismissals, doubts, even anger. And I think, in part, that’s why I became so obsessed. It felt like I was trying to heal him by proxy, trying to take control in a situation where so much was out of my hands. Food became more than fuel or tradition—it became a form of advocacy, of care, of hope.

These days, I take a more intuitive, balanced approach. I loosely follow a paleo diet—it fits well with my family’s routine—and I still fast, but now I follow a cyclical rhythm, aligning with my menstrual cycle to honour my body’s natural fluctuations.

Motherhood: Rewriting the Narrative for the Next Generation

When my daughter was little, I made all her food from scratch. No sugar, no additives, no packaged snacks. I wanted her to build a healthy foundation from the very beginning—one based on whole foods, mindful eating and true nourishment. It wasn’t about being rigid; it was about protecting her from the kind of confusion and disconnection I felt growing up.

As a child, I didn’t have much agency around food. You ate what was put in front of you, whether you liked it or not. Fullness wasn’t something you tuned into—it was something you overrode. You cleared your plate. You had dessert. And yes, you had McDonald’s and soft drinks and sweets and chocolates and biscuits. And you liked it—because it was a treat, because it was familiar, because it was what everyone else was doing. I remember it clearly. And while there was joy in those moments, there was also a lot of messaging I had to unlearn later in life.

So when I became a mother, I wanted to do things differently. I wanted to give my daughter a sense of ownership over her body, a taste for real food and a deeper awareness of how what we eat makes us feel. I made her purées and little meals from scratch, always thinking ahead to how her relationship with food would unfold.

Of course, as she got older and started attending school parties, sugar made its way into her life. That was okay—I didn’t want her to feel deprived or isolated. But I knew that because we’d laid such a solid foundation, those occasional moments wouldn’t undo everything. In fact, they became opportunities for balance and learning.

Still, I faced plenty of criticism. “Let her be a kid!” “You’re depriving her!” And the classic line: “You had McDonald’s and liked it…”Yes—I did. But that doesn’t mean I can’t aim for something different now. With what we know about the effects of sugar, processed foods, and additives, why wouldn’t I try to give her a better start?

What frustrates me is how acceptable it’s become to feed children ultra-processed junk—but offer them a piece of fruit, or a homemade oat ball, and suddenly you’re the ‘difficult’ parent. It’s a strange paradox: we celebrate convenience and conformity, but we question care and intention.

For me, making healthy choices for my daughter isn’t about fear—it’s about love. It’s about giving her the tools I didn’t have, and helping her build a positive, empowered relationship with food from the very beginning.

Food Today: Love, Simplicity, and Shared Responsibility

Despite the complicated beginnings, food has found its way back to a place of love and connection in my life. Family gatherings still revolve around food—only now, the pressure is gone. I no longer feel obligated to eat everything or perform my appetite. I eat what feels right and I savour it.

Ironically, my partner Jean-Paul also comes from a hospitality background—and he happens to be a fantastic cook. He now takes the lead on many meals in our home and I’m genuinely grateful. Despite my upbringing, I’ve never really enjoyed cooking. It feels like a chore to me. But that’s all right—because food doesn’t have to be a performance. It can be a partnership. A rhythm. A shared joy.

At home, we make as much as we can from scratch, choosing natural, unprocessed ingredients whenever possible. We aren’t perfect, but we’re intentional. We aim to nourish rather than just feed. To support our health rather than just fill a plate.

Looking Back, Moving Forward

Food has been many things to me over the years: a source of comfort, a point of stress, a tool of control, a ritual of joy. It’s been a performance, an obligation, a creative outlet—and at times, even an act of rebellion. Like many people, I’ve had to untangle what I was taught about food from what my body and intuition were trying to tell me.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that our relationship with food is not fixed. It can be rewritten. Reclaimed. Reimagined.

You don’t have to wait for a diagnosis, a new year, or a crisis to start asking the deeper questions:

• What does nourishment truly mean to me?

• What foods make me feel energised, supported and well?

• Am I eating from habit, pressure, or presence?

• What example do I want to set—for my children, my partner, or simply my future self?

  
  

These aren’t questions about calories or macros. They’re questions about care. Because food isn’t just about what’s on your plate—it’s about how you feel while you’re eating it, and how you feel afterward. It’s about coming back to your body as an ally, not an enemy. It’s about joy, not judgment.

At Noemi LIFE, we believe nourishment isn’t about restriction or perfection. It’s not about never having cake, or making everything from scratch all the time, or being “good” around food. It’s about creating a relationship with eating—and with yourself—that feels loving, sustainable and empowering.

Whether you’re in a season of healing, experimenting with fasting, shifting your diet to support your hormones, or simply trying to feed your family better—know that you’re allowed to evolve. You’re allowed to honour where you’ve come from, while choosing something different going forward.

Nourishment is personal. And powerful. And it starts with listening.