For a long time, food felt complicated. Not because food itself is complicated. A potato has never once asked me to define my worth before entering a soup. A carrot is not standing at the counter with a clipboard, judging my life choices. Food is actually fairly honest that way. It grows, nourishes, comforts, spoils if ignored, and occasionally rolls under the fridge where it begins a new life as a small archaeological mystery. The complicated part was everything I had been taught to attach to food. Rules. Shame. Punishment. Perfection. Good days and bad days. Starting over on Monday. Eating as proof of discipline. Not eating as proof of…