I Had to Break Myself Open to Find Peace

...how cooking became my escape from a mind that wouldn’t let me rest

To quiet the constant buzz of my thoughts and find peace in the present, I turned to cooking.

When I try something new, my mind, ever the control freak, tries to anchor it to something familiar. Maybe that's why, when I found myself stirring a pot of simmering curry late one night, the rhythm of it felt like the beat of a drum in my chest- steady, reassuring, almost like a meditation. It wasn’t about the dish; it was about the repetition, the focus. My thoughts, normally scattered and fast, fell into the cadence of chopping, stirring, tasting. I could breathe.

I first noticed this when I cooked dinner after a particularly exhausting day, a day I spent juggling emails and calls, avoiding the weight of my thoughts about my future. Standing over the gas, watching the onions sizzle in oil, I felt a calm seep in. I could lose myself in the motion, in the simple act of creation. For the first time in ages, my mind wasn’t racing ahead or replaying old conversations. I wasn’t worrying about what came next. I was just here. Just now.

For years, I’ve wondered what it means to be present. I’ve told myself that I’ll get there when I’m more settled, when my life is more figured out. But that’s the lie I told myself for so long- thinking that stillness required everything to be in order. Cooking taught me the opposite. In fact, it was the messiness of it all-the onion peels on the counter, the spatters on the floor-that made it feel real. It wasn’t perfection that allowed me to breathe; it was the acceptance of imperfection.

I didn’t understand it at first. I thought I was simply being productive, filling the space between my thoughts with an activity. But it wasn’t just the action of cooking; it was the permission to lose myself in it that opened the door to something more. I wasn’t trying to control the outcome anymore. I was embracing the chaos of it, letting it unfold, letting my mind float freely. My overthinking self could pause, because here, in the kitchen, I couldn’t plan ahead. I had to wait for the ingredients to come together.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about how to “fix” myself. I started looking at each meal as an experiment in surrender. I didn’t have to worry about whether it would taste good or if I followed the recipe perfectly. The act of cooking became about letting go. I allowed myself to burn the garlic, to forget about the simmering pot, to mess up-and yet, in the mistakes, I learned more about myself than I ever did from a perfectly executed meal.

And maybe that’s what life is about, too. The moments that feel like chaos, the ones I try to escape, are often the ones that show me the most about who I am. And for the first time in a long while, I’m okay with that.

So now, when I stand in the kitchen, knife in hand, stirring sauce or kneading dough, I don’t think about the person I’m trying to become. I just exist there, in the moment, with the rhythm of my movements and the warmth of the stove. It’s the only place where I can let go, truly let go, and not have to worry about the noise in my head.

- B