When Normal Settles In: Getting my Old Life Back

This past month, I started cooking for myself again—willingly—for the first time in years. As a teenager, I loved looking up recipes, mostly Asian-inspired, and trying them out at home for my grandparents and uncle. It was one of the brighter parts of my life, before the abuse and the years following my sexual assault. Back then, life hadn’t yet weighed me down, and I was full of hope.

After ‘Jane and the Jenny’s’ cooking stopped being a joyful pastime. In Korea, They studied me, using my love for cooking as a shallow quality to attract a man. I felt like a part of me was being exploited, leveraged to gain Michael’s attention, even though I had no desire to play that game.

It was like someone stole something precious from me, wore it out, and then everyone praised the thief for their new accessory.

The joy of cooking vanished, and I hadn’t picked up a pan since then. But here I am, five years later.

Today, I made Udon soup with minced turkey and a side of white cheddar mac and cheese—because, why not? I prepared everything with care, not bothering to measure the spices, as I like to do, and it turned out great.

Eating my own cooking again feels warm, like there's a little sun glowing in my chest. It’s dimmer than it used to be, but my happiness is still growing.