The Woman I Know

First day of Lent. Here we go again.

In 2024, I fasted from fast food–or more truthfully, from eating out. I didn’t have the money. Unemployment will humble you quickly. But it wasn’t just about money. I had grown used to convenience, used to tapping an app and food arriving warm at my door. I got used to not having to decide, chop, stir, and wait.

Cooking for one didn’t feel worth the trouble, or so I told myself.

There I was–no steady income, low in spirit, heavy in body, and tired in ways sleep couldn’t fix. I didn’t like how dependent I was on junk or how quickly I reached for something salty or fried when my emotions were too loud. The fast became more than financial discipline. It was a cleansing not just of my diet, but of my reflexes.

At first, I resented it. But, I loved it, too.

I loved chopping fresh vegetables. I loved walking through the grocery store, picking things that were just for me. I loved discovering what I actually liked instead of defaulting to what was easy. There was something sacred about standing at my stove, steam rising, and the aroma of fresh vegetables and Southern seasonings filling the room.

But it also terrified me.

Because cooking meant staying; staying in my body, in my apartment. It meant staying with my thoughts.

When I began that fast, I was low both mentally and physically. I was talking to God more often, asking for discernment, and clarity; asking for anything that felt steady. It is no coincidence the fast began around Lent. I needed structure.

I needed something to anchor me.

My mom was fasting too. Weeks prior, we had started praying together in the mornings. She spoke about her fast like it was companionship, like God was near and attentive. She encouraged me to build my own relationship. So, that’s the direction I took.

At first, I told myself to get up and leave the apartment, but I didn’t. I ordered the groceries instead. I was still hiding, still letting someone else carry what I could not.

Until one day I leapt.

I went to Whole Foods and bought so much I had to strategize how to carry it all home. The bags cut into my hands.

It felt dramatic. Heroic, even.

As I walked out of the store, reality crept in. I started thinking about everything I needed to do to make myself a meal.

I had to unpack the groceries. Then decide what to cook. Then prepare it. Then wait.

Instant gratification whispered, as tempting as the apple in Eden.

So I rewarded myself with a burger and fries from Shake Shack. After I put the groceries away and the grease settled, I was half-satisfied, half-aware of what I had just done. Disappointment quietly crept in.

I didn’t judge myself, though. A setback isn’t a sentence.

That night, I prayed differently. Not politely but honestly. Somewhere along the way, I opened the book of Matthew. I needed instruction. While I’d been reading Psalms and it had held me, I needed direction. I needed to know how to endure.

So I took a walk with Jesus.

Sometimes that meant literal walks in Central Park. Sometimes it meant pacing the

apartment in silent prayer. I imagined Him beside me–not rushing me, not scolding me.

Just a calming presence. The city continued to move but my mind slowed and focused.

As the days turned into weeks, something shifted.

I noticed the freezer was full of meat, the cabinets were stocked with grains, the fridge was loaded with fruits and vegetables. And, water was endless.

I went back to the basics and found myself making meals that reminded me of home, reminded me of family. I began to reflect on my mom's freezer stocked with meat and our pantry always had grits and bread. We didn't drink soda, but bottled water was a constant. We didn’t have excess. But we had enough.

The basics.

Through Jesus’ journey, I understood differently how five loaves and two fish fed 5,000, how water became wine. Provision felt less abstract. I had what I needed. I always had.

By the end of that fast, my desire to order out dropped from constant craving to mild convenience. Five percent at most, and even then, I could see it clearly: it was the ease I wanted, not the food.

Convenience was a quiet seduction.

And now, here I am again.

Not with fast food.

With fog.

I have grown dependent in ways that feel subtle and obvious at the same time. It softened the edges of my anxiety. It made loneliness feel warm instead of sharp. It loosened my creativity when I felt stuck. It helped me laugh through pain instead of sitting with it.

It asked nothing of me.

And that is precisely the problem.

I think about the girl I was before convenience became my language; the girl who moved freely, who took risks, who met life head-on. I recognize her, but I don’t always know her.

I think about the girl who attached herself to the fog–who used it to cushion heartbreak, to blur uncertainty, and make solitude softer. I know her intimately. But sometimes I don’t recognize her.

Then I look at the woman I am today–forged in fire, weathered by storms, and resilient in ways my younger self could not imagine. I both know her and recognize her. And, I love her.

She survived. She built. She endured.

But can she feel without anesthesia?

That is the question.

It scares me to feel again. To feel joy without padding. To feel boredom without escape. To feel disappointment without the fog softening its impact. Clarity is beautiful, but it is also exposing. Without the fog, I will see everything–the gaps, the longings, the unfinished parts of myself.

And yet, I want it.

I want freedom so badly. I want to move through my life without distance from myself. I want strength on the hard days, clarity in uncertainty, and confidence to start and finish what I begin.

Right now, I don’t know if I can do this, but I know I am willing to try.

So today, I begin again.

A new fast. Not from food or money. From numbing and convenience as comfort. From reaching for something before I reach for myself.

I hope to feel life again–the joy and the inconvenience, the boredom and the beauty. I hope to meet myself without shortcuts.

God gave me this life for a reason and She does not make mistakes.

This is where faith begins. Not in certainty, but in stepping forward even when things are uncertain.

A basic meal