The Healing Power of Cooking
Cooking is more than making meals, it’s finding peace and creativity, one ingredient at a time.
Let’s be real: adulting is hard. Life is a lot. And while therapy, meditation, and journaling get all the well-being spotlight, there’s a humble helper hiding in your cupboard: cooking.
Not just any cooking though. Not the rush-to-throw-something-together kind. I mean the one where you slow down a little bit, breathe in the garlic sizzling in olive oil, and open the oven with joy.
We've all heard that certain foods are healthier than others. That dark leafy greens boost our immune system and berries are packed with antioxidants. But have you ever stopped to consider how healing the actual act of cooking can be? Not just what ends up on your plate, but the beautiful making that happens before it?
Slowing Down in a Speed-Up World
In a world that constantly demands we move faster, cooking asks us to slow down. To be present.
When I chop onions (even through tears sometimes), knead dough, or stir a simmering pot, something magical happens. My racing thoughts quiet down. For those precious minutes, I'm not worrying about tomorrow's deadline or that awkward thing I said three days ago. I'm just... here.
Remember that time when the whole world seemed to be making sourdough bread? Studies have shown that engaging in creative activities like cooking can reduce stress levels by up to 75%, according to the Journal of Positive Psychology. No wonder so many people instinctively turned to their kitchens during the pandemic's darkest days. It wasn't just about finding a hobby during lockdown. We were all reaching for something deeper, a way to ground ourselves when everything else felt chaotic.
Playing with Your Food (It's Encouraged!)
“Don’t play with your food!” Does that ring a bell? Your parents might have told you that growing up. Well, I'm here to tell you the opposite. Cooking is a playground for grown-ups.
Think about it: You've got colors, shapes, textures, smells, sounds, and tastes all dancing together. You have the whole sensory orchestra in your hands. And guess what? You get to be the composer.
From the satisfying crunch to the chop chop chop of the knife cutting through before meeting the board. The simmering, boiling, and popping, among other sounds. The floral, fresh, and earthy aromas. The transformation of pale dough into golden, fragrant bread.
You can turn pancakes into teddy bears, and poke bowls into rainbows. You can have fun in this sensory heaven, engaging all parts of your brain while letting your creativity flow. Cooking is creation. It’s the art of turning raw ingredients into something completely different. It’s care turned edible.
A Slice of My Story
My journey with food wasn't always smooth. We had a complicated relationship. Think eating disorders and cooking feeling like navigating a minefield of potential mistakes and disappointments.
I controlled what I was eating, skipped meals, ate to forget, my weight yo-yoed, and so on. My only spark of joy was trying the most unusual combinations during my rare restaurant outings, and it’s not like I was going to weird places anyway.
I cooked once for the family as a kid and enjoyed it a lot. I made it feel like they were going to a restaurant, and it went well. So well that it scared me. Growing up, I learned the hard way that joy often came at a cost. Every time I allowed myself to feel happy, pain seemed to follow. I would get in trouble. I wasn’t allowed to feel good. So, I stopped. I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t want to cook again. It just became something I had to do later, as an adult. We all have to eat. I either stuck to the easiest and quick things, afraid of taking what felt like both risks and care of myself (at a time when I thought I didn’t deserve that), or followed recipes with religious precision later, terrified of messing up. Yet sometimes I was curious about exploring more, but couldn’t for various reasons, some technical, some mental.
When I leaned into veganism at 25 years old, my tastebuds developed at the same time as discovering a new, vibrant world of flavors. I guess, as a person, I also started to blossom. Discovering myself, experiencing freedom, being more aligned with my core values and who I really was. I was getting out of survival mode. My culinary life changed; I became a foodie. I entered a world of pleasure, while also learning more about nutrition along the way. Then when I finally had my own kitchen at 29 (I had always shared until then), it became a full-blown love story: I started to cook nice things again.
Then quickly came the nomad life at 30: trying out all sorts of foods from all around the world, and cooking delicious traditional dishes, with strangers who became family in the moment, and ingredients I’d sometimes never heard of. I started cooking for others as well, and their smiles healed parts of me I didn’t know needed it. Compliments felt uncomfortable to receive, until they didn’t anymore.
I even made peace with lentils, a childhood trauma of mine! No matter how hard I tried for years, every prepared lentil dish I would dare to taste confirmed my belief: I would never like them. Until I didn't just eat lentils, I cooked them myself. I experimented. I played. I approached them with curiosity. And somehow, that small kitchen victory felt like healing something much deeper than just a food preference.
These past few months have been rough; every day felt completely dark. But cooking offered me a little pocket of joy. A reminder that I am still here, still capable. A distraction from my problems and thoughts, like active meditation. Focusing on not cutting my fingers, over thinking about the rest of my life falling apart.
Each meal was proof that I could still create and enjoy something, even when everything else felt impossible. Somehow, it showed me that life still mattered to me, and that I mattered too.
Finding Connection Through Food
Cooking doesn’t have to be a solo act. Some of my most precious memories with people were created around chopping boards and pots, in kitchens around the world, or at home with my nieces. There's something uniquely vulnerable and beautiful about cooking with others.
It builds trust. It teaches teamwork. It shows you how to ask for help in small, non-scary ways. "Can you pour while I whisk?" "Would you taste this and tell me what it needs?"
These small exchanges build bridges between us. When we cook together, we share more than recipes, we share stories, traditions, and parts of ourselves that might otherwise remain hidden.
It’s fun, vulnerable, chaotic, and incredibly bonding. Even if the food ends up slightly burnt (hey, it happens), the experience is golden.
Making Space and Time for Kitchen Therapy
You might be thinking: "This sounds lovely, but who has the time?"
Cooking doesn't have to mean three-course meals or elaborate techniques. Sometimes it's simply about being present with whatever you're making, even if that's just toast with avocado. I admit, I have spent hours and hours in the kitchen, and time flew by because I was enjoying it so much, but still, it’s not mandatory. You can also make it a family activity, and let your kids and partner help.
I see you coming. Cooking can be stressful too, you’re right. The clock is ticking, pans are sizzling, you’re out of salt and someone wants to eat now.
That’s okay. Like life, it’s not always chill. But you can learn to slow it down, simplify it, and make it yours again. For both of these concerns, see it has an activity and not just making lunch or dinner because you have to. It’s like going to a yoga class or taking the time to meditate. Make an appointment with yourself, book the time slot in your calendar, give yourself what you deserve.
Maybe now you want to mention money. But cooking doesn’t have to be fancy or expensive. Some of the most creative moments I’ve had in the kitchen came from having very little to work with. While volunteering with non-profits, I often cooked on a tight budget, using limited ingredients and adapting meals for different diets (think vegan, gluten free, sugar free, and whole food at the same time). What I first saw as a challenge turned out to be a gift. The restrictions pushed me to experiment and try new things. "Less is more" started to make real sense, and I actually ended up cooking more often, with more variety than ever. You’d be surprised by what you can do with just a few simple ingredients and thinking outside of the box (which is a skill you can grow by practicing!)
As sociologist Geneviève Pruvost points out in this Arte video (in French) about how we can regain power over our daily lives, cooking remains one of the few activities where we still witness the entire process from beginning to end. In a world where we've become disconnected from how things are made – where water simply appears from taps and heat from thermostats – cooking reconnects us to the fundamental processes of transformation and creation. Even more if you can grow your own veggies (or even just a few herbs in your apartment).
When we cook, we don't just consume, we participate. We don't just take, we create. We reclaim a small but significant piece of autonomy in lives that often feel beyond our control.
Follow This Recipe
Start simple. Choose one recipe that intrigues you rather than overwhelms you. A quick one, or without many ingredients.
Engage all your senses. Notice the colors, smells, textures, and sounds. Inhale. Feel. Taste. Look. Take it all in.
Be kind to yourself when things don't turn out as expected. When a sauce breaks or muffins don't rise, you haven't failed. You've gathered data for next time. You've learned something new about heat or timing or ingredients. There's beauty in understanding that the process matters just as much as the outcome. And that one doesn’t define the worth of the other: cooking was still nice even if the meal doesn’t turn out good. Read that again. Let it sink.
Cooking, like life, improves with practice anyway.
Make it fun. Play music. Wear an apron you love. Dance a little. Lick the spoons.
Be bold and free. Try your own combinations, experiment by following your intuition and heart, get creative.
Celebrate every step. Do that when you cook, but also in life in general! A great friend of mine recently told me, “If it’s big enough to feel bad about it, then it’s big enough to feel good about it.” If you would feel bad about it not working out, take the time to feel good about it working out.
Be grateful. Like a prayer, thanking nature, and the people who grew and made the ingredients you used. And thank yourself!
A Feast for the Soul
We all need to eat. That's non-negotiable. But we get to choose whether those daily acts of feeding ourselves become moments of mindless necessity or opportunities for presence, creativity, and joy.
The kitchen can be your sanctuary, your playground, your laboratory. Make the flour your trusted friend who wants the best for you, and the countertop a space where mistakes are fixable, experiments are encouraged, and even the simplest creations can bring profound satisfaction.
So, the next time life feels overwhelming, consider turning to your stove. Chop something. Blend something. Create something. Let the rhythms of cooking ground you in the present moment.
Because sometimes, healing doesn't come in a pill or a therapy session. Sometimes, it comes in a homemade meal prepared with presence, patience, and love; the kind that nourishes more than just your body.
Whether you’re feeling amazing or like a walking question mark, I invite you to cook. For yourself. With others. For the joy of it. For the healing in it.
And if all you manage today is stirring a pot of pasta and sprinkling some spices, know that you still did something powerful.
Because cooking is love. And that includes loving yourself.
With a wooden spoon and a full heart,
P.S.: If you’ve got your own version of a lentil redemption story, or any fun or fond cooking memory to share, please tell me. I’ll raise a pan to that!