If I Can’t Critique the Meal, It’s Not a Plan

by Valerie | Fiber, Flavor, and Dignity

There’s something no one tells you about trying to lose weight in a house that still sees you as a child:

You can be starved for respect while being told you’re full.

Recently, my mom asked me to commit to a weight loss program—pressured me, really—across texts, emails, and in person. She wanted something expensive, intensive, and tied to medication. I said no. Not right now. Not that route. I offered an alternative—Weight Watchers. Lower cost. Easier integration. Less likely to take over my entire life. She agreed… but nothing really moved forward.

So I said, fine. In the meantime, let’s build our own structure. Let’s work on a sustainable menu. I did the research. I suggested meals. I tried to take the lead—not just for me, but for both of us.

Then came the pork chop.

It was a long day. I’d run errands, worn myself down doing the kinds of things I’m often expected to do without question. Dinner time came—her time, not mine. I wasn’t hungry yet, but I came down anyway. And what I saw was a baked pork chop, some green beans, and the mention of a mystery third item that never appeared. A few hundred calories at best. No fiber. No flavor. Nothing that would sustain a grown woman trying to avoid late-night binges or secret snacks.

So I said something.

I said, this isn’t enough. This isn’t going to work long-term. It’s too low in sustenance, too flavorless to keep us satisfied. It’s the kind of meal that makes people give up. And that’s when the switch flipped.

Suddenly, I wasn’t a partner. I was “not nice.” I was “maybe not getting anything to eat.” I was being scolded like a child.

Later, when I tried to smooth things over just to stop the escalation, she said: “Now you sound like a child of mine.”

But I’m not a child.
I’m a grown woman trying to feed herself with dignity.

How can I follow a plan where I’m not allowed to critique the plate?
How can I be expected to change my body without being allowed to use my voice?

This isn’t just about the pork chop. It’s about autonomy. It’s about how I used to take up crackers and blueberries to my room—quiet snacks I hoped no one would notice. Until they did. Until I felt shamed. And then it became candy, because candy doesn’t leave crumbs or explanations. Candy is quiet and unmonitored. Candy doesn’t expose you.

But the truth is: I don’t want candy.
I want a meal. I want fiber, flavor, and dignity.

Lesson?
If your meal plan silences your voice, it’s not wellness. It’s control.
And control never leads to wholeness.