Living with ARFID in a world that sees food as compliance, not care.
Let me be blunt: food isn’t comfort for everyone.
For me – and a lot of people like me – it’s a daily minefield.
I live with ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder). It’s not just “picky eating.” It’s a condition where certain tastes, textures, smells, and presentations of food can trigger intense revulsion, anxiety, and shutdown. It’s not psychological resistance – it’s physiological and deeply embedded.
But the world doesn’t care about that. Not really. Not the institutions. Not the catered events. Not even the well-meaning friends or family who think “just one bite” is harmless.
Mental Health Facilities: Food as Control
When I was placed in mental health facilities, I didn’t just lose freedom – I lost any agency over what I put in my body.The meals weren’t nourishment. They were commands.
You get option A or B. No substitutions. If you don’t eat, it goes in your chart.
Rarely did they offer a basic sandwich or wrap – ham and cheese on bread or a tortilla – if the main meal wasn’t something I could handle. But needing to fall back on that every time I was faced with something unfamiliar? That wore me down fast. The mental toll of constantly having to navigate and negotiate around meals added a layer of burnout I didn’t need.
ARFID wasn’t acknowledged.Accommodations weren’t offered with intention.The result? I was punished for not choking down something that my brain and body rejected as unsafe.
I wasn’t being difficult. I was trying to survive.
But the system doesn’t make room for that. It makes notes.
Casual Dinners: When Kindness Misses the Mark
Even among friends, eating can feel like a tightrope.
One friend and their mom – people with kind intentions – once encouraged me to take a “no-thank-you” bite of something they’d made. Their intention wasn’t cruel. They wanted me to feel included. Normal.
But for someone with ARFID, that request isn’t harmless – it’s a test I didn’t ask to take.
A “no-thank-you” bite might be how some parents teach kids to try new things.
But I’m not five. I’m not building a flavor profile. I’m protecting my nervous system.
That one bite can lead to gagging, mental overwhelm, or potentially choking.
I’m not saying no because I’m rude. I’m saying no because I want to stay okay.
Potlucks and Work Events: Performative Choice
Catered events? There’s almost never a true choice. One or two preset options, maybe one vegetarian. That’s it. Try asking for accommodations, and you’re seen as high-maintenance. ADA protections technically cover dietary restrictions, but in practice? You’re on your own.
Potlucks? I bring something I know I can eat. And I usually stick to it.
Ironically, my food often gets plenty of compliments – because I know how to cook within my limits, and I make it count.
My three-cheese bacon cavatappi pasta bake – made with smoked Gouda, extra-sharp cheddar, colby-jack, and topped with panko – is always well-received.
Because when I do eat, I eat what’s safe. What I trust.
The Bigger Picture: Food as Social Compliance
Our culture wraps food in emotion: love, comfort, tradition, identity.
So when you can’t eat what’s offered, people take it personally.
But ARFID isn’t a rejection of them. It’s a condition.
And it doesn’t go away just because someone says “you’ll like this one.”
What looks like “just a bite” to others feels like a trust fall with no one there to catch me.
The pressure to try, to “be normal,” to eat what’s handed to you – it’s everywhere.
At work. At parties. In hospitals. Around dinner tables.
And the shame that follows? That’s systemic too.
What Neglect Really Looks Like
Systemic neglect doesn’t always show up in paperwork or policy.
Sometimes it shows up on the tray in a healthcare facility.
Other times, it shows up during what seems like a momentous work occasion.
Sometimes it hides behind a plate with a smile attached.
And every time, it demands the same thing: submit or be labeled a problem.
I’m not being picky. I’m not being dramatic.
I’m living in a body that’s doing its best to feel safe in a world that doesn’t make room for people like me.
This is what it looks like when even the act of eating becomes political, personal, and exhausting.
And I’m not going to apologize for needing food I can trust.
This is what dignity looks like.
And I won’t let anyone take it away with a fork and a smile.