“So, where have you been eating lately?” 

It’s a simple question, the kind we toss around in casual conversation. But for me, over the past year, this question has become a tiny mirror reflecting a subtle yet significant shift in my entire mindset. It seems straightforward, but it’s deceptively layered. It unpacks into a dozen smaller questions: What did you eat? Where were you? And, most importantly, who were you with? None of these have simple answers upon reflection.

Why are you asking me this question?

On the surface, this question appears to be an expression of concern, but in reality, it often hides a hidden agenda. There was a time when I lived for that question. To my friends in Houston, I was a walking, talking Michelin Guide. I may not have had a formal scoring system, but my recommendations, honed by countless culinary adventures, had a trusted track record. This started as a fun identity—the “Foodie Friend.” People would ask, and I’d light up, ready to deliver a curated list of the latest and greatest.

But a strange thing happened. That light, joyful trust began to feel like a subscription service with too many users. The pressure to constantly “discover” and “perform” as the local expert turned my passion into a part-time job with no incentives. And as we all know, the quickest way to kill a hobby is to turn it into an obligation. The raw, genuine excitement I felt pushing open a new restaurant’s door, the sacred anticipation of reading a menu—it started to fade, replaced by a sense of duty.

So, I did something radical: I quit. I went on a “solo dining” strike. I stopped taking requests and started eating just for me again. I needed to reset, to find my way back to that primal, honest craving for good food, free from the need to review or recommend. I learned that to give good advice to others, my own internal compass needed to be calm and pointed squarely at my own desires. Therefore, this is a good question, and it’s a subject I’ve been studying still.

But I’ve made some changes.

Of course, my answer to the question is different now. There’s no denying the thrill that comes with discovering a new city restaurant—that jolt of energy and novelty. But that excitement had become a double-edged sword. The constant dining out was weighing on me, not just on my wallet and my schedule, but on my well-being. The pattern felt unsustainable.

I knew I wanted to change, but let’s be honest—was it even possible? There’s a principle in physics: an object at rest tends to stay at rest. I had built a whole life and identity around being the person who dines out. My system had reached a kind of equilibrium, and my senses had grown accustomed to—even dependent on—that intense, immediate gratification from restaurant food. The vibrant, salty, umami-packed joy of restaurant food is a powerful lure, and I realized I was a little bit addicted. Breaking that habit felt like trying to push a boulder—it required a fundamental shift.

They say a bad workman blames his tools, so I decided to keep mine simple. I started with a basic pan and a stubborn determination. My first week was a comedy of errors. But a deep-seated respect for food kept me going. I learned from each burnt edge and over-salted broth. Soon, I graduated from simple scrambled eggs to simultaneously juggling a sizzling wok for Pad Thai and a bubbling pot for Tom Yum soup.

There’s a (possibly apocryphal) scientific theory that the parts of your brain that handle driving, singing, and cooking are all linked. I’m an excellent driver, and I can carry a tune, so I clung to this theory like a life raft. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but my confidence in the kitchen grew with every meal.

Is a meal an opportunity to socialize, or a chance to enjoy my own company?

I’ll admit it freely: I’m someone who recharges by being alone and loses energy in large, noisy groups. In my first year of university, I, like everyone else, felt the pressure to be social. I thought that saying “yes” to every group meal was the key to belonging. But I soon realized that these “recharging” sessions were the moments I felt most drained. Deciding where to eat with six people felt more complicated than solving a quantum mechanics physics problem.

I made a switch. I now fiercely protect my solo meals. They are my sanctuary. I decide the when, the where, and the what with absolute freedom. Maybe it’s a quiet corner of the library, a sunny spot on the quad, or a bustling cafe where I can be anonymous in the crowd. This simple act of control is deeply comforting. I’ve made peace with this part of myself that might seem “unsocial,” and in doing so, I’ve found a stable inner core. Now, when I do say “yes” to a social meal, it’s a genuine choice, not an obligation. I can openly share my thoughts and be fully present because my own battery is full. This isn’t merely the reassurance that comes from the fullness of food, but rather the confidence that stems from choices made with a deep understanding of myself.

Seasons change. Blossoms give way to lush leaves, which then fall, making room for the next spring. Just as nature cycles through its phases, our inner worlds have their own seasons. My journey with food has been about learning to listen to my own internal season, to honor the “ritual” of what I truly need—whether that’s a vibrant social feast or a quiet, self-cooked meal that nourishes far more than just my body.

So, if you ask me where I’ve been eating lately, the answer is complicated, and wonderfully so. Mostly, it’s been right where I need to be.