A plate in front of me displays a perfect meal. I’ve picked up pieces from all my favorite dishes: moist turkey, soft stuffing, a buttery biscuit. My stomach releases a longing groan – I’m hungry. I reach for my fork and carve out greedy bites. I chew with my mouth open, I don’t care that my brother is glaring at me. The food is good, home-cooked for the Holiday. It says, this moment is special, this moment is for you. I want to make the moment last, extend the joy and consume the whole plate, silverware and all. 

But halfway through my dish, I’m full.

 I feel it in my whole body. My mouth no longer salivates for the food, instead mechanically clamping and releasing, willing my throat to swallow the soggy lump. My grandma eyes me.

 Finish your food. 

But I can’t. A message has been sent through the winding vine of nerves up from my stomach and into my brain. The plate no longer looks appetizing, now a pile of sickening mush. A wave of nausea rolls through my body and I have to look away.

Ever since I was young I’ve lost my appetite quickly. I struggled with chronic nausea and would rarely finish my food. I preferred snacking to meals and dessert to dinner. At hotel breakfasts buffets, I would pile my plate with waffles, yogurt, and cereal.

 Are you going to eat all that? My parents would ask with raised eyebrows.

 I vowed I would eat it all, and yet my plate was always left with half an abandoned waffle and an open yogurt container, barely touched. 

Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, my mom would say. 

I found it frustrating that I was unable to enjoy food in the way that I wanted to and the way it seemed everyone around me could. Food was exciting and intriguing, and my favorite flavors brought me so much joy. I knew there was more of that joy out there for me to find.

 I just couldn’t stomach it.

I have often worried that my low appetite is not just a facet of my digestive system, but maybe a piece of something larger within me, something essential to my identity— an identity aligned with the inability to consume the things I crave. In the same way that food is broken down and farmed for nutrients in the stomach, I approach life with the goal of absorbing all the nutrients out of every opportunity I am given.

 I stack up new experiences like empty plates, reflecting on the joy of each moment. But my eyes are still bigger than my stomach. I make plans, but when I arrive, I’m exhausted. My appetite has vanished and instead I’m met with familiar sickening nausea. I try to fight against my body, willing my brain to allow me to engage. I know I have opportunities for joy and future memories laid out in front of me on a platter, waiting for me to pick up and devour. 

I just can’t stomach it. 

I’ve often dreamt of a solution, some way to consume more, experience more, without being left with a stomach ache. But I’ve found nothing. So instead I savor the moments I can stomach, appreciating the people around me and the flavors in front of me. When I find that I am full, unable to take anything more from my plate, I know that, in time, I’ll be hungry again, and I’ll enjoy my next meal.