The Night I Wrote Instead of Ate

Celebrating 10 Years Of Sobriety

Before I found my voice, I buried it between the mattress and the box spring.

It was 11:40 on a Wednesday, and I was standing in front of an open pantry door in my socks, staring at a sleeve of crackers and a jar of peanut butter like it owed me something.

I don’t remember what set it off that particular night. That’s the honest truth, and it’s also kind of the point. Most nights it wasn’t one big thing. It was a pile of small things that had been stacking up all day without me noticing: my daughter melting down at dinner, a bill I didn’t have the money for yet, a husband somewhere outside Nashville I hadn’t heard from since noon, the particular exhaustion of being the only adult in a house for eleven days straight with four children and no break. By the time it was dark and quiet, and everyone else was asleep, all of it came due at once, and the only thing that had ever reliably muted it was food. Not eating because I was hungry. Eating because I needed the noise in my head to stop, and chewing was the fastest way I knew to drown it out.

I had the crackers in my hand. I remember that specifically, the crinkle of the sleeve, cool from the pantry, already half open from the last time. And for whatever reason, that night, instead of taking them to the couch the way I usually did, I set them on the counter and picked up the notebook I kept by the coffee maker instead. I didn’t decide to be strong. I want to be clear about that, because I know how these stories usually get told, like there was a moment of clarity, a switch that flipped, a woman who suddenly remembered her worth. That’s not what happened that night. I was just tired of the same 11 p.m. and wanted to see if there was anything else underneath it besides emotional hunger.

I wrote: I don’t actually want the crackers or the peanut butter. I want someone to ask me if I’m okay and mean it. I want my husband to hold me in his arms while watching late-night flicks. I want…I want companionship.

That was it. That was the whole sentence that came out first, and it surprised me, because I hadn’t known that’s what I wanted until I saw it written down in my own handwriting on a page that wasn’t going to ask me anything back. I kept writing after that, about being tired of being the strong one, about missing my husband, abou being sexual frustrated but coping and living with vaignia atrophy at age 28 which was rare but not uncommon after four c-sections and a body that estrgren was declining and being furious at him in the same breath because a inconsiderate OB-Gyn doctor told me to use it or lose it, about how full I felt and how empty at the same time, which didn’t make sense until I wrote it and realized that’s exactly what the eating was always trying to reconcile.

I didn’t skip the crackers, if you’re waiting for that part. I ate some later, standing at the same counter. This isn’t a story about willpower winning. It’s a story about one night where the pen got there first, before the food did, and gave the feeling somewhere to go that wasn’t my stomach. One night out of hundreds where I ate anyway. One night where I didn’t.

I think we do a disservice to recovery when we only tell the version where the woman never touches the crackers again. That’s not how any of this actually goes. It goes in inches. It goes in one Wednesday at 11:40 where you reach for the notebook before the sleeve, and then it goes right back to the old pattern the next night, and you don’t throw out everything you learned just because it didn’t hold. You just noticed, once, that there was a sentence underneath the emotional hunger. And once you’ve seen that, you can’t fully unsee it, even on the nights you eat anyway. That’s all part of early recovery. It’s noticing the pattern and all your imperfections without shame.

That’s what that pen gave me that isn’t measurable on a scale or in a calorie count. Not a cure. Just proof that some nights, the words could get there first. And that’s why I write and share my shame story unapologetically. Because I am human, and this is a story about my messy middle even though I’ll be celebrating 10 years in full remission on August 1, 2026. Be inspired.

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About The Author:  Dr. Nikki LeToya White MSEd-TL, Ph.D. RHN is the founder, director, and full-time board-certified trauma-informed nutritionist, folk herbalist, and wellness consultant at Spiced Life Conversation Art Wellness Studio and Botanica. She created Spiced Life Conversation, LLC Art Wellness Studio, and Botanica to provide the Metro Atlanta area with counseling and coaching services where clients are carefully matched with the right program for healing abandonment and childhood emotional neglect trauma that cause codependency, emotional eating, financial stress, and imposter syndrome as it relates to the fear of success and being abandon. We help you begin your emotional healing journey with ease. Recently, we have expanded to include an online membership site so we now provide support to people living all over the world. All of our recovery coaches provide at least one evidence-based treatment to assist in your recovery. Dr. White is a big proponent of self-care and helping people live a fulfilling life! She has been in full remission with both codependency and emotional binge eating disorder since 2016. In living a life in recovery from sugar addiction. I love my low-sugar balanced lifestyle.

Best Regards

Dr. Nikki LeToya White