Cooking Through Chronic Pain: Real Talk from My Kitchen Counter
There are days when the pain hits before I even open my eyes. My back locks up, my leg throbs, and I already know before my feet touch the floor — this day’s gonna be a fight. But I still have to eat. The house still runs on something, and most of the time, that something is me.
Living with chronic pain means learning to balance between “doing” and “overdoing.” It’s that constant tug-of-war between wanting to take care of everyone and trying to keep your body from completely giving out. Some days, cooking feels like climbing a mountain barefoot. Other days, I can lose myself in the rhythm of it — chopping, stirring, tasting — and it almost feels like therapy.
I’ve had to let go of that old perfectionist version of myself who used to cook full spreads from scratch every night. These days, dinner might look like one pan, one spoon, and whatever I can throw together without having to stand too long. But I’ve learned this: effort still counts, even if it doesn’t look like it used to.
Pain has a way of humbling you. It’ll strip away the fancy and leave you face-to-face with what really matters. For me, that’s the comfort of real food, made with what I’ve got — not what the world says I need. Fresh herbs from my garden, homegrown potatoes, or even a skillet of eggs with a little love in it. That’s enough.
I used to think slowing down meant I was giving up. Now I know slowing down is how I keep going. I’ve burned more meals than I can count because I had to go lay down mid-cook. I’ve cried in the kitchen more times than I’ll ever admit out loud. But through all that, I’ve learned to move different — to work with my pain, not against it.
Cooking through chronic pain isn’t about the perfect plate. It’s about keeping a piece of yourself alive when everything else hurts. It’s the quiet victory of getting dinner done when your body said “not today.”
So if you’re reading this and you’re fighting through your own kind of pain — physical, emotional, or both — just know this: the little things you manage still matter. You’re not lazy, weak, or behind. You’re surviving something most people can’t even imagine. And that, my friend, makes you stronger than most.
Sometimes I have to sit down between chopping onions and stirring the pot. Sometimes dinner takes three hours because I have to stop and rest. But it still gets made. It still feeds the people I love. And on the hard days, that’s enough.