Ice Cream Epiphany

Sometimes everyday moments hold the biggest lessons. Today’s reflection begins with an ordinary Saturday and ends with a reminder of why I’ve done the hard work of recovery.

Like so many before it, today was unremarkable. Not unpleasant, just ordinary.

I woke up and did what I do most days: went for a run with a friend. I got back just in time to tag my husband out. On Saturday mornings we often run serially, but since he’s injured, he gave me a high-five as I walked in the door and he headed off to breakfast with friends. We haven’t always been good at giving each other space for our own things, but we’ve gotten better at it over the years.

While he was out, I had a coveted FaceTime call with my oldest. He’s three time zones away and loving his freshman year of college, so any face time is a treat. We talked for half an hour and I got a window into his new life: Music Theory that fascinates him, Philosophy that stretches him, an intro seminar he could do without, a professor who keeps changing the syllabus, and acappella auditions. The details don’t matter as much as the connection. The sound of his voice and the smile on his face are proof that he is exactly where he needs to be.

After we hung up, I walked with my youngest to our neighborhood coffee shop for his weekend pastry. He talked the whole way there, the whole time we sat together, and the whole way home. I love the enthusiasm in his sweet voice, every thought spilling out as if it can’t be contained. I know in a few years, I’ll be pulling words out of him, so for now I let them wash over me.

By the time we got home, my husband was back from his breakfast. It was only 11 a.m., but I’d already been up for five hours. I did something I rarely do these days: took a glorious nap. Just twenty minutes, but enough to carry me into the next part of the day: two hours in birthday-party hell.

Some context: I’m a raging extrovert who loves being with my people. But I’m also shy, which means I hate small talk with strangers. My Little Guy is in a new classroom this year, so I didn’t know any of the parents at this party. Two hours with strangers is not my idea of fun. My husband didn’t want to go either, so we made a pact to brave it together.

The party was in one of those birthday factories: bounce house, climbing structure, air hockey, pizza, cupcakes. Kids crying, laughing, squealing, sometimes all at once. I chatted with parents I’ll likely never see again. It was fine. I can fake it when I need to. But thank god for that twenty-minute nap.

We made it home a little worse for wear. Little Guy got screen time so my husband and I could recharge, meaning I edited my book proposal for an hour. Dinner came next: takeout, because if you’ve been here awhile, you know I hate to cook. Husband, Youngest Son, Middle Son, and his girlfriend all gathered at the table. Dinner was quiet but connected. I loved watching my middle son in this new role of boyfriend.

As we were finishing, he and his girlfriend announced they were heading to the movies, with a pit stop at Cold Stone Creamery. Their elaborate discussion of ice cream flavors had my husband and me practically drooling. Our son invited us to join, a parenting win, but Cold Stone was twenty-five minutes away, and it was nearing bedtime for our youngest.

Instead, I offered to make a grocery run. I took everyone’s ice-cream requests and headed out with a list of favorite flavors and toppings.

On the way, I realized I hadn’t written all day. For a moment I wondered if maybe this was the day I stopped having things to say. But standing in the frozen aisle, searching for my husband’s favorite Breyers Mint Chocolate Chip, I knew I was wrong.

I had the thought: this moment, right here in the frozen section, is why I’ve spent years in therapy. Why I kept showing up even when it was easier to lean on old coping patterns. Why I’ve worked so hard to let the eating-disorded part of me rest. All that work was so I could stand in this aisle choosing ice cream for my people, go home, eat it with them, share the pleasure and stay fully present.

For the record, I’ve eaten plenty of ice cream in my life. When I’m not in the throes of anorexia, I enjoy dessert as much as anyone. But I’ve also lost days, weeks, years of letting myself take in the joy of eating alongside my family. Anorexia is an illness of deprivation, of distance instead of presence, disconnection instead of connection. She promised protection from vulnerability, but what she left me with was emptiness.

Tonight reminded me why I’ve done the work. Not just to savor every bite of ice cream, but to savor health, connection, and the people I love. And to remember, on the days I long for the perceived safety of anorexia, that she can ride along beside me without steering. I’ve got this.