On the Third Day, They Let Me Eat

What I Wish I Could Have Said Back Then

Growing up, eating with cousins and grandparents wasn’t just about food. It was a battleground of smells, textures, and quiet dread. The adults meant well—I know that now. But back then, their words cut deep:

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I heard that so many times—at family dinners, reunions, and holidays. I didn’t push food around my plate to stall. I just couldn’t stand those mashed potatoes even touching something I did want to eat. I wanted meat and bread. I loved French fries if they were crispy, but if they were mushy, the texture would trigger my gag reflex. I used to say, “I eat vegetables. I love French fries.” That was always laughed off or dismissed

A Brain that is Wired Differently

I gagged at the smell of cooked vegetables. Nobody understood why I’d quietly slip away when it all got too overwhelming. I didn’t know how to explain it either. I just knew that if I ate certain things, I might actually throw up.

And I didn’t want to do that in front of people I loved. It might have even earned me a whipping. I grew up in a time when that was the go-to method for discipline.

(The picture is my sister and I at around the age of 8 or 9. My sister, Christy, would have been four years younger than I. We are at my grandparents' home.)

On the Third Day, They Let Me Eat

When I was very young, I did throw up—or involuntarily spit out food. I think it was beets. I remember having to eat them. They were slimy and disgusting to me. I couldn’t have been older than four, and I still remember it. That seems traumatic.

Another time, around Christmas, I had a dream-come-true toy: a train set. My parents were trying to help me, though it didn’t feel like it at the time. They told me I couldn’t eat unless I ate what was on the table. That was an easy choice. I wouldn’t eat.

On the third day, I remember thinking, I’m not even hungry. I was happily playing with my train set, thinking something like, I’d rather do this than eat that. Soon after, my parents gave in. I think they were scared I would starve.

They weren’t being abusive, even if it might sound that way now. I don’t see it like that at all. They were worried. I wouldn’t try new foods, and they thought I needed to. In my mind, though, it was simple: I’m different. I don’t fit in. For me, it is only slightly better than eating sewage.

I wish I could go back and say this, gently but clearly:

“You don’t know what you're missing either. You're missing that for me, food isn't just food. It's survival. It's sensory overload. It's nausea before the first bite. It's trying not to gag at the table.”

I didn’t understand it back then. Without understanding, there were no words. I didn’t know what autism or sensory sensitivity was. I just knew that eating like everyone else felt like holding my breath underwater and pretending everything was fine.

This came up with a therapist once. I had no idea that food aversion could be diagnostic. She asked me to talk about it, and I told her that just talking about certain foods was bringing me close to gagging. She probably noticed physical signs of stress I wasn’t even aware of.

I remember saying, “I guess it’s all in my head.” She agreed, but not in the way I expected. She said, “Yes, you’re having a strong reaction without even eating it. That tells me it is in your mind.”

I didn’t understand what she meant then. To me, it was an internal sigh: There it is again. The same phrase I’d heard at the dinner table—used to shut me down. But she wasn’t dismissing me. She was observing something real. I see that now.

Most of those voices are gone now: my grandparents, some of my cousins. I don’t hold it against them. They couldn’t see what I was going through. But part of me wishes I could sit down with them today, not to argue, just to help them understand.

It wasn’t rude.
It wasn’t drama.
It wasn’t “picky eating.”

I used to say, with shame, “I’m a very picky eater.”
But really, I was doing my best with a body and brain that respond differently to the world.

If you grew up feeling judged over food—or if you still carry shame from those old family dinners—this post is for you, too.

You weren’t wrong.
You were just wired differently.
And you deserved understanding, even if you didn’t get it.

And to those who are still here:
Thank you for listening now.

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