You sit down to eat, but your brain doesn't.
It’s still running — spinning through to-do lists, analyzing that conversation from earlier, or scanning ahead for what could go wrong. You’re chewing, but you’re not really there. Maybe you’re scrolling your phone, watching something, reading, anything to stay one step ahead of the noise.
And maybe you've tried to “just eat mindfully,” but it feels... boring. Uncomfortable. Even a little scary.

You’re not broken.
Your nervous system might just be doing its best to keep you safe — even while you eat.

You always say yes.
Yes to dinner plans you don’t really want to attend.
Yes to the food that’s offered, even when your body says no.
Yes to being the “easy one,” the one who never makes a fuss — even when your needs are whispering (or screaming) to be met.

People-pleasing is often praised in our culture. It can look like kindness, generosity, flexibility. But under the surface, it’s often a strategy — a way to stay safe, to avoid conflict, to secure belonging.

And here’s the thing: people-pleasing doesn’t just shape how we show up in relationships.
It can quietly shape how we show up to the table.
To food.
To our own hunger and fullness.

Fullness isn’t always just a feeling in the stomach.

For many people—especially those who have spent years in cycles of restriction, bingeing, dieting, or trying to control their bodies—fullness can bring on a tidal wave of panic, shame, or the urgent need to undo what’s just been done.

You might feel like you’ve crossed an invisible line. Like something is wrong. Like you need to fix it, make it go away, or find relief—fast.

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.

“You’re so stupid.”
“Of course you messed it up again.”
“No one else struggles like this.”

Maybe these aren’t your words.
But they’re the ones you’ve lived with.
The internal radio station that hums quietly in the background — or sometimes shouts — filled with shame, judgment, and self-criticism.

You didn’t choose this voice.
It was shaped by experiences that taught you to self-monitor, self-correct, and self-protect.
It may have helped you fit in. Avoid punishment. Stay safe. Be loved.

But what happens when that voice never turns off?

By the time most people land on my clinic couch, they’re carrying a heavy, silent belief: I’m broken.

They’ve been living with it for years—sometimes decades.
The belief that they should have figured it out by now. That their inability to stop bingeing, their constant need to control, or their overwhelming thoughts about food, mean there’s something deeply wrong with them.
That if they could just. try. harder… be better… be less… they’d finally feel okay.

And no matter how accomplished, capable, or “together” they appear on the outside, inside they feel like a failure.

Have you ever felt like you need to get a grip on food in order to feel okay?

Maybe it shows up as counting, cutting back, planning your next meal before this one is finished. Or maybe it looks like constant body-checking, scanning for softness, striving for a version of yourself that feels just out of reach.

On the surface, these patterns can look like discipline or “health.” But beneath them, something quieter is often at play: a nervous system searching for safety.

If you've ever found yourself caught in patterns of restricting food, overeating, or disconnecting from your hunger and fullness cues, you're not alone. These behaviors often aren’t just about food—they are coping mechanisms that developed when we needed to protect ourselves from pain.