Comfort Eating and the Grief of Not Being Held

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It’s a rainy Sunday.

I’ve just come back from shopping and noticed I’ve eaten more than I intended to.
Some ice cream.
Two pain au chocolats.
A couple of lollies.
Nothing extreme — just more than I usually would.
And I know why.

I’m not hungry.
I’m looking for comfort.

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🍫 Food as a Stand-In for Connection

It’s not about the sugar.
It’s about the soothing.

The act of eating gives me something — warmth, fullness, a moment of satisfaction.
But it’s also a mirror. A reflection of something deeper:

I don’t have anyone I can reliably reach out to when I feel low.
No one to hold me, or listen, or just sit with me in the quiet.

I used to reach out to my mother, but it always left me emptier.
I never felt met — just managed.
The interaction often highlighted how lonely I actually was.

So instead, I eat.
Not fast food. Not in secret. Just more than I need — a quiet act of trying to fill the space where care should be.

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🧠 This Isn’t About Willpower

And I’m not beating myself up about it.
I’m running.
I’m eating mostly well.
I’m slowly losing weight.

But I know that if I don’t find new ways to honour the need beneath the craving, this pattern will keep repeating.
Because this isn’t about discipline.
It’s about grief.

It’s the grief of not being held.
The grief of doing it alone.
The grief of having comfort but not connection.

And honestly?
Eating like this is still better than some of the other ways I’ve tried to cope in the past.
It’s softer. Gentler.
It still comes from the part of me trying to survive.

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🕯️ A Moment of Self-Compassion

If I could say something to myself right now, it would be this:

You’re not bad for wanting comfort.
You’re not weak for needing something.
You’re just someone who’s carried a lot alone.

You’ve been your own source of care for a long time.
And sometimes, that care looks like a pastry and a blanket.
That’s okay.

But you also deserve to be held — not just fed.
And that hunger deserves to be seen.

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I don’t have a perfect ending for this.
Just a recognition.

That food isn’t the problem.
Loneliness is.

And the more I can meet myself with tenderness — in these small, imperfect moments — the less I’ll need to reach for something else to do it for me.