I’m fed up. 

Not with food itself but with having to think about it constantly.  Every day.  Every meal.  Every snack. 

What can I eat? 

Will this hurt later? 

Will this trigger something? 

Am I pushing my luck? 

Should I wait? 

Should I eat now? 

Is this too much? 

It’s exhausting. 

Eating isn’t meant to be a strategy game.  It’s meant to be simple. Automatic. Something you do without running through consequences in your head. 

But for me, food always comes with a mental checklist.  It’s not about being fussy, this isn’t about being picky or controlling.  It’s about risk management. 

When you’ve lived with flare-ups, pain, nerve issues, distension and the knock-on effects that can follow, food stops being neutral. It becomes something you have to handle and that takes energy.  I don’t just think: 

What do I feel like eating?

I think: 

Will this cause pain? 

Will I regret this later? 

Will this undo a settled day? 

Will I be awake tonight dealing with it? 

That’s a lot to carry, especially when it’s every single day.  The real tiredness isn’t physical. What wears me down most isn’t my stomach.   It’s the mental load. 

Having to decide, reconsider, second-guess and adjust – over and over again – just to eat.  There’s no off switch. No “normal mode”.  And when I’m already tired, sore, hormonal or anxious, that thinking becomes heavier. Louder. More draining. 

Some days I just want to eat something without analysing it first.  There’s grief in this, too. I don’t think we talk enough about the quiet grief that comes with this. 

Grief for: 

Spontaneity. 

Ease. 

Not having to plan every bite. 

Grief for the version of yourself who could just grab something and move on with the day. 

It doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful for my surgery or my survival.  Both things can exist at the same time. 

What I’m learning (slowly) 

I’m learning that the answer isn’t stricter rules or more vigilance.  It’s fewer decisions. 

Having a handful of safe, boring, reliable foods. Accepting that some days aren’t variety days. Letting “good enough” be enough. 

Because the goal isn’t perfect eating, it’s mental rest and on the days I’m just fed up – on those days, I let myself admit it. 

I say it out loud: 

“I’m tired of having to think about food.” 

Because pretending I’m fine doesn’t help.  Naming the frustration does.  I can still eat. I can still choose gently but I don’t have to be cheerful about it. 

A quiet truth 

Living in a body like mine means food will probably never be completely thought-free.  But that doesn’t mean every day has to be hard. 

Some days are just about getting through. Some days are about comfort. Some days are about not making it worse and that’s okay. 

I’m not failing because this is tiring.  I’m human and I’ve been managing something complex for a very long time. 

And honestly? 

That alone deserves some kindness. 

This post reflects personal experience and reflection, not medical or professional advice.