As a kid, I showed up to school with the same packed lunch every single day: a ham, cheese, and mayo sandwich - and I wasn't really fond of it. The mayo would always make the bread soggy, and that sandwich ended up half-eaten in the trash most days (sorry, Mom).

I just didn't grow up feeling any sort of volition toward food. It never occurred to me that I could go into the kitchen and make a meal I enjoyed. In high school, that ham, cheese, and mayo sandwich eventually reduced itself to a protein bar and whatever $2 taco I could snag during my 30-minute, off-campus lunch.

That lack of agency, motivation, and creativity showed itself during those years. It wasn't just about food; I was prone to bouts of depressive episodes, staying holed up in my room after school.

Fast forward a couple of years. I'm in the last quarter of my third year of undergrad, and the pandemic hits. My college apartment was empty as my roommates stayed with their families; inevitably, I spent a lot of time alone that summer. I could feel my anxiety crawling back in as I was forced to figure out what to do with myself.

It started with scrolling through social media and watching TV. After stumbling upon a few food blogs, I decided to stop scrolling, take all that pent-up energy, and put it into cooking for myself. I struggled through recipes with a blind sense of technique, messing up more than one batch of chicken and staining my clothes with splashes of tomato soup. But it was comforting. I could lose myself in a recipe for hours standing in my kitchen. It became a sort of solace for me in a time of turbulence.

A few months in, I felt more in tune with my creativity. The more time passed, and the more recipes I cooked, the more my skills improved, and a new sense of confidence in myself emerged. It was a process I fell in love with: researching recipes, maybe picking one or two that tested my capabilities, writing down ingredients, going to the store, and then coming home to cook. I started sharing my food with friends and family and became connected to them in ways I hadn't when I was younger.

And when I moved to San Francisco following graduation, I carried all of it with me. In a shiny city with a new apartment and an adult salary, I invested more time in my cooking. In the unexpected challenges of post-grad life, cooking was always there. It's funny; it's like as the quality of my food improved, so did my quality of life.

I can't (at least completely) conflate my life with food; it's not as simple as that. But it showed me that having hobbies and passions could be fulfilling and enriching. It gave me a sense of purpose and movement in life. It became a little personal win every time I followed a recipe from beginning to end. Sometimes, when things feel particularly challenging, stepping away for an hour to do something meaningful lets you return to the people around you with renewed energy.

If you feel like you don't have books you can lose yourself in or the skills to pick up something like running or pottery, just try it. No one is judging you except for yourself. Look for things that sound interesting to you, and you'll eventually find activities that reinforce that sense of richness in your life. It took some time, but cooking became that for me: something I love to do, something to share with others, and something that helps me through tough times. It's a hobby, but also so much more.