I’m already a target because I’m overweight, but being overweight and receiving benefits? People believe they understand me completely.
I share a little apartment with my daughter, Lyra. At seven years old, she asks a lot of questions that I don’t always know the answers to. For example, we never order pizza like her friends’ families do, and we never keep apples in the refrigerator.
In all honesty, I don’t want to give her cheap frozen nuggets or fast noodles every day. However, fresh fruit? Meat that is lean? Even those tiny Greek yogurt tubs? Far too expensive. I’ve performed the calculations more times than I’d like to acknowledge. If I only buy processed foods and items with yellow sticker clearance, I can feed us for a week on £20.
At the store last month, a woman noticed my size in my trolley and gave me a loud “tsk.” judged me there as if I were invisible without saying a word. Lyra saw. asked me afterwards if eating crisps is unhealthy for us.
I applied for as many jobs as I could, including night stints cleaning while Lyra slept. Nothing. I had to decide between obtaining a packet of chicken breasts and filling up the gas meter. When your child coughs and it’s chilly outside, you can tell which one is winning.
After then, a notice was sent home by the school. claimed that “nutritional balance” was needed in Lyra’s lunchbox. Like I didn’t know previously. To keep her from hearing, I sobbed in the bathroom while the faucet ran.
However, I discovered something that might be useful last week at the community center. Something that caught me off guard. And now I’m thinking if it could make things worse or if it could alter everything for us.
I had come to the community hall to get Lyra a used coat from the donation rack. There was this pretty red jacket that seemed like it might still have a season or two of wear left in it, but she’s outgrowing her old one. A poster that read, “Community Cooking Workshop—Learn to Cook Balanced Meals on a Budget,” caught my attention while I was there. Something about a local initiative that collaborates with local farms and supermarkets to offer produce at a discount was highlighted. You received a box of fresh ingredients at the end, daycare was included, and the seminars were free.
I debated for a good minute while looking at that poster. I experienced a range of feelings, including exhilaration, anxiety, and even a glimmer of optimism. Darker thoughts, however, began to creep in: Would the locals there condemn me the way everyone else seemed to? Would people think I’m lazy or uninformed about nutrition based on my appearance?
I nearly turned to leave. However, Lyra pulled at my sleeve and gestured at the coat I had just picked up. “Mum, we can try that cooking thing,” she muttered. “I enjoy picking up new knowledge.” My daughter never fails to spot the opportunities that I miss. She is more curious than afraid, and it made me realize that I must have courage for the two of us.
I therefore noted the next session’s timing, which is Wednesday at 6 p.m. Lyra was asleep when I raided the kitchen cabinets that night. I had a half-full jar of sauce, some pasta, tins of beans, and a couple of old crackers. Although it was disheartening to see, I also reasoned that perhaps this class might teach me more effective ways to make the most of what I have.
Wednesday arrived sooner than I had anticipated. Immediately after school, I assisted Lyra with her schoolwork before we rushed to the community center. About ten persons, including both elderly and college students, were present. Despite my immediate self-consciousness, I told myself that everyone was there to learn. A tall, amiable-looking woman identified herself as the teacher, Colette. After extending a cordial greeting to me and giving Lyra a high five, she led the way into the kitchen.
Colette showed us how to prepare a basic vegetable soup using fresh carrots, potatoes, onions, and a few spices over the course of the following hour and a half. After that, we learnt how to make nutritious fish cakes by combining canned fish with chopped vegetables and breadcrumbs. She only mentioned the recipes, the scents, and the flavors without mentioning weight or spending limits. Being in an environment where no one was interested in my past or my appearance felt nice. All we were doing was learning and cooking together.
There was even a kids’ area where Lyra and a couple of other kids made paper chef hats and laughed with the volunteers. Colette gave us each a package of fruit at the end of the session, which included enough potatoes, carrots, and onions to make the soup at home along with a few extra treats. There would be more next time, she assured us. I think I thanked her a dozen times.
I felt lighter than I had in a long time as I walked home. Lyra held onto her small carrot box as if it were a priceless gem. “You mean we can make soup tomorrow, Mom?” she exclaimed, bouncing along. “I might even pack it in my school lunchbox!” Even though the school’s note regarding her lunches still hurt, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I got up early the following morning and gave the soup recipe another go. It had a lovely scent, like possibility and comfort in a pot. I prepared Lyra’s lunch by filling a tiny thermos. I tucked in some wholemeal bread that I had discovered the previous evening off the discounted rack. Although it wasn’t a lavish feast, it was handmade and loaded with vegetables.
That afternoon, partly expecting another note or some judgmental glances, I went to pick Lyra up from school. Ms. Francis, her instructor, grinned at me instead. “Lyra informed me that you two shared a kitchen. The soup appeared to be quite tasty. She showed everyone with pride. My eyes pricked with tears. Even though it was such a tiny thing, knowing that Lyra could be proud of her supper warmed my heart.
Encouraged by that sensation, I made the decision to continue going to the weekly cooking class. Instead of purchasing sugary snack pots, Colette showed us how to prepare substantial lentil casseroles, make a vegetable stir-fry with brown rice (which is less expensive than you may think if you buy in bulk), and flavor plain yogurt with honey and fruit. She taught us how to make the most of those yellow-sticker sales, how to chop and freeze veggies before they went bad, and how to make good dinners out of leftovers. It felt more feasible, but there were no miracles—my budget was still limited, and I still had to balance the grocery list and the gas meter.
Another participant, Marisol, shared that she knew a corner store owner who occasionally gave away day-old bread for free during one session. She introduced me to Hassan, a kind older man. He gave me a warm greeting and said he detested discarding loaves that were still perfectly good after they had passed the “sell-by” date. He even included a bag of unsold damaged apples. “Simply trim the brown portions,” he winked. “Creates a delicious apple crumble.”
I cooked an apple crumble that evening. Lyra and I had probably never prepared a dessert together before. It smelled amazing, but it wasn’t elegant. With flour all over the surface, our kitchen became a complete mess, and we both laughed about it. And for the first time in a long time, I had the feeling that we might be able to turn the corner.
However, things don’t go perfect overnight. After a week, I returned to the grocery store and stocked up on the typical bargain items. I was recognized again by the same woman who had previously tutted at me. This time, my cart contained brown rice, carrots, apples, and even a tiny package of chicken thighs. “Trying to look healthy now, are we?” she said as she gave me a lengthy once-over, as if it were a performance.
I was ready to ignore her remark when I felt my chest constrict. However, I then recalled Lyra and how she had once inquired as to whether we were “bad” for eating crisps, and how I had been too embarrassed to respond to her the previous time. “I’m just doing the best I can for my daughter,” I answered, meeting her gaze. Just like everyone else. After that, I turned back and left.
That altered something in me, though I’m not sure if it altered her opinion. I came to see that I couldn’t continue to let the opinions of strangers determine my value. I am receiving benefits, yes. I am overweight, yes. Yes, I do purchase inexpensive groceries. However, none of those characteristics diminish my humanity or my ability to be a caring parent.
Colette said the next week that the community center needed a part-time assistant for the cooking classes, someone who could help with setup, cleanup, and welcoming new participants. Would any of us be interested, she asked? I paused. I desperately wanted a job, but I was worried that I wasn’t qualified. When Colette noticed my hesitancy, she drew me away. She stated, “You’ve been here every week, encouraging people to try new things and helping them figure out the recipes.” “I believe you would be ideal.”
I nevertheless applied in spite of my misgivings. I got the job two weeks later. Even though it was only a few hours per week, it gave me pride, something I hadn’t felt in a long time, and a tiny stipend. In addition to learning more about budget cooking, I had the opportunity to actively assist those who felt criticized in a similar manner to myself.
It wasn’t a wand of magic. There were evenings when I questioned if I would have enough money to pay all of my debts, which were still mounting. But suddenly I had a little more strength to keep trying rather than being paralyzed by shame. Using the advice I had learned, I gradually reduced my food bill by freezing meals in bulk for busy days, substituting expensive meat for lentils or beans on some nights, and making soups out of leftover vegetables.
I began to see changes in Lyra as well. Rather than merely watching TV, she would seek to assist in the kitchen. Every time we made a recipe from the workshop, she would beam, proud to pack a lunchbox full of homemade and nutritious food. It meant the world to us both when her teacher nodded in agreement during pickup.
Colette observed, “You have a gift for this,” when she saw me cleaning tables one day after class. Have you ever thought about obtaining more nutrition education or certification? The ridiculousness of that almost made me chuckle. Me? On benefits? Are you overweight? “I mean it,” she declared. “I can relate to you. When money is limited, you are aware of the actual difficulties people endure. That viewpoint is useful. For the first time, I realized that my hardships could be turned into something constructive, something that could benefit other people.
After a month, I made the decision to check for any short courses given by nearby organizations. As it happened, if I donated enough hours at the community center, I could receive a scholarship for a basic nutrition course. I registered. Why not? I had nothing to lose. I kept thinking about Lyra’s expression when she tried our first apple crumble whenever I questioned whether I was setting my sights too high. I recalled the time I confronted that critical woman at the grocery store. I also reminded myself that I was entitled to an opportunity to develop.
There are still some folks who look at my cart. Some people can never get why someone in my circumstances doesn’t “eat better” without considering the expense. However, I’ve come to realize that my life is more complex than those looks. My daughter is content and in good health. Together, we prepare meals. We chuckle at our own errors. I’m teaching her that we can adjust to whatever life throws at us. We can pick up new abilities. In unexpected locations, we can discover acceptance and a sense of camaraderie.
I will always remember what life was like before I found out about that workshop. The despair I experienced, as if we were caught in a vicious circle of processed, inexpensive food and judging looks. I now have a part-time job that helps me make a little additional money, I’m getting better at cooking on a budget, and I feel like I’m worth more. Above all, Lyra’s mother is no longer too discouraged to give it a shot.
Even though life might still be difficult, I feel like I have more reason to hope for the future every day. I would advise anyone else in my situation to never give up on themselves. Good people want to help, and there are resources available. Sometimes all it takes is a little bravery to say, “I need this,” as you enter that community center or wherever your assistance may be waiting.
Remember that you are more than your situation if you have ever felt condemned or trapped. You are more than your body size or the total of your food receipts. All we want is to do what is right for ourselves and the people we care about. And it’s the only thing that matters.
We appreciate you reading our story. Please share it if it touched your heart or made you think of someone who could use a little encouragement. And please like this post if you think more people should know about little triumphs like ours. Someone else might find hope in unexpected places with your support.
