Savoring the Moment: How Intentional Meals Bring Joy and Balance to Busy Days

Written by Latosha Walker
Founder & CEO, Wondering.Waves | Military Spouse | Creator | Storyteller
Published: November 19, 2025

Day 17 of Our Mindfulness Series: There’s a quiet power in the moments we choose to slow down—the small acts of presence that ripple through our days, grounding us in joy and balance even when life feels overwhelming.

Some mornings, the world feels like it’s spinning too fast, and the simplest act of sitting down to eat can feel like a luxury. I know this deeply. For years, my relationship with food was tangled in stress, distraction, and a hunger that was hard to name. Yet, through mindful meal planning and the practice of truly savoring each bite, I’ve started to find a way to bring peace back to my mealtimes—and to my life.

This isn’t a neat, before-and-after story. It’s a real-time journey, with progress and setbacks, gentle wins and hard days. But it’s a journey that matters, especially in the context of military family life, where schedules shift, routines get uprooted, and stability can feel like a moving target. In the middle of all that, the way we eat can either become another source of stress—or a small, steady place to come home to ourselves.

I’m learning to pause and actually savor what’s in front of me—one simple, intentional meal at a time. Even on busy, overwhelming days, slowing down to taste, breathe, and be present at the table helps me find a little more joy and balance in the middle of it all.

Recognizing the Need to Slow Down

My journey toward mindful eating began around 2019, a time when my mental health was at a low I could no longer manage alone. Life felt like a relentless storm swirling around me. I was juggling two jobs—one full-time manufacturing role and a part-time job with the school district—while attending college full time. On top of that, I carried the heavy responsibility of being my grandma’s medical power of attorney, making decisions that weighed on my heart daily. And in the midst of this, I was navigating the painful decision to leave a marriage that no longer served me.

Those days were marked by exhaustion and overwhelm. Eating was no longer a nourishing ritual but a rushed necessity—something to be done as quickly as possible to stave off hunger. I would scarf down meals, barely tasting the food, my mind elsewhere—sometimes on the next task, sometimes lost in worry. Often, I wouldn’t even remember if I had eaten before reaching for more. It was as if my body and mind were disconnected, and I was simply existing to get through each day.

I vividly recall the moment I finally reached out for help. At the end of my first doctor’s appointment, I nervously asked if I could see a nutritionist. I was overweight, struggling with food, and desperate for guidance. The doctor’s immediate support and referral marked a turning point. It was the first step on a path toward reclaiming my relationship with food and, ultimately, with myself.

This period was one of the hardest seasons in my life, a time when survival took precedence over self-care. I was caught in a cycle of stress and neglect, with eating habits that felt automatic, almost robotic. Meals were a blur, a way to fill a hole without truly nourishing my body or soul. But recognizing this pattern was the beginning of change—a spark of awareness that things could be different.

I remember the quiet moments after meals when I would sit back and realize I had no memory of what I just ate. It was as if my body was on autopilot, and my mind was elsewhere—overwhelmed by stress, anxiety, and the weight of so many responsibilities. This disconnect was painful, and it sparked a desire for something different—a way to reconnect with myself through something as simple and essential as eating.

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The Two Stages of Mindful Eating: Planning and Presence

Over time, I realized that mindful eating isn’t just about what’s on the plate—it’s about how it gets there and how I show up once it does. For me, mindful eating has two stages that work together like a gentle rhythm: planning and presence.

When one of those pieces is missing, things start to unravel. If I don’t plan, I’m more likely to skip meals, grab whatever is closest, or lean on convenience foods that don’t actually make me feel good. If I don’t practice presence, I can eat an entire meal and still feel strangely empty, like I missed the moment entirely. But when I bring both planning and presence into my days, meals become less of a blur and more of a grounding ritual—especially in the unpredictability of military life.

These two stages don’t require perfection. They don’t demand that every meal be beautifully plated or eaten in total silence. Instead, they invite small, realistic shifts: a few minutes of thought before the week begins, a pause before the first bite, a little more curiosity and a little less judgment. Over time, those small shifts add up to something powerful—a relationship with food that feels more intentional, more compassionate, and more connected to the life I’m actually living.

Stage 1: Planning Your Meals

Planning used to sound rigid to me, like something that belonged in a color-coded binder with perfectly organized grocery lists and matching containers. But in reality, my version of planning is much softer and more forgiving. It’s less “meal prep boot camp” and more “future me will be tired—how can I be kind to her?”

When I plan, even loosely, a few important things happen:

• I save money by buying only what I need instead of impulse-grabbing whatever looks good in the moment.

• I save time by going to the store with a list instead of wandering the aisles hoping inspiration will magically strike.

• I waste less food because I’m buying with intention, not just wishful thinking.

• I can make sure I’m choosing meals that I actually like and that support my health, energy, and mood.

• I’m less likely to skip meals or end up in that frantic “I’m starving, I’ll eat anything” mode that usually leads to choices I don’t feel great about later.

For me, “planned” doesn’t always mean elaborate. Often, my favorite meals are low-effort ones: a simple soup, a sheet pan of roasted veggies and chicken, a big salad with things I can mix and match. The goal isn’t to impress anyone—it’s to create something that feels doable on a Tuesday night when my energy is low and my brain is tired.

One of my favorite parts of planning now is that it’s something my husband and I often do together. We’ll talk through the week: What nights will be busy? Are there any events, appointments, or volunteer commitments? Where do we need something quick, and where can we linger a little longer in the kitchen? Those conversations turn meal planning into a kind of gentle check-in about our life, our energy, and what we both need.

In the kitchen, we naturally fall into a rhythm. I love the prep work—the chopping, rinsing, measuring, and getting everything ready. He enjoys the actual cooking part: stirring, seasoning, tasting, adjusting. It feels like a dance we’ve learned over time, one that turns an everyday task into a shared ritual. There’s something grounding about hearing the sizzle of onions in a pan while we talk about our day, or the quiet comfort of washing dishes together afterward.

And then there’s eating out, which used to be a minefield for me. Big portions, endless refills, and the pressure—spoken or unspoken—to “get your money’s worth” can be really hard when you live with Binge Eating Disorder. One strategy I learned, and still use, has made a huge difference.

After ordering and receiving the food, I intentionally half the portions of each item on my plate. I physically move half to the side, as if I’m drawing a little boundary for myself. Then I drink some water and wait a bit before deciding what comes next. That pause is everything. It gives my body a chance to send signals my brain can actually hear. If I’m still hungry after that, I keep eating. If I’m not, I ask for a box and bring the rest home.

It’s such a small thing, but it’s also a quiet act of rebellion against that old “clean plate club” mentality I grew up with. It’s me saying: I don’t have to finish this just because it’s in front of me. I’m allowed to listen to my body. I’m allowed to stop.

Planning, for me, isn’t about strict rules. It’s about creating conditions where I’m more likely to be kind to myself. It’s about making it easier to choose what supports me, especially on the days when everything else feels hard.

Stage 2: Being Present While Eating

Eating mindfully means more than just putting food in your mouth—it means truly being with the food and the moment. In our busy lives, especially as military families often juggling multiple demands and transitions, it’s easy to eat while distracted—typing emails, folding laundry, or scrolling on our phones. But those distracted meals can leave us feeling disconnected, unsatisfied, and even more hungry.

When I’m distracted, the sensory magic of food slips away. I miss the vibrant colors on my plate, the inviting aromas that fill the kitchen, the comforting warmth or refreshing coolness of each bite. Instead, I’m rushing through, barely tasting, barely noticing. It’s like watching a movie with the sound off—something essential is missing.

But when I pause and bring my full attention to eating, even for a few minutes, it transforms the experience. I see the food as more than fuel—I see it as nourishment for my body and soul.

Being present while eating means:

• Noticing the appearance of the food—the way the light catches the glisten of olive oil on roasted vegetables or the vibrant green of fresh herbs.

• Feeling the temperature and texture on my tongue—the crisp snap of a fresh carrot, the creamy richness of avocado, the satisfying chew of whole grain bread.

• Inhaling its aroma—the earthy scent of simmering spices, the sweet tang of ripe fruit, the comforting smell of fresh-baked bread.

• Tasting each ingredient fully—letting my mind wander through the layers of flavor, identifying herbs, spices, and textures with curiosity and appreciation.

• Recognizing when I’m comfortably full—listening to my body’s signals instead of rushing to finish the plate.

This presence is especially powerful when sharing a meal with loved ones. Recently, I had the joy of celebrating my uncle and aunt’s 40th wedding anniversary in San Antonio. I made a conscious effort to be fully present—no phone distractions—so I could savor their stories from Air Force days and the warmth of family connection. Those moments of mindful eating became moments of mindful living, where food and family intertwined in a beautiful, grounding way.

When I eat alone, the experience feels almost meditative. I slow down, focusing on the flavors, textures, and warmth of the food. It becomes a quiet ritual of self-care, a chance to reconnect with my body and breath amidst the noise of the day.

When I’m with others, mindful eating becomes a celebration of connection. It’s about savoring not just the food but the laughter, the stories, and the shared presence around the table. Those moments remind me that nourishment is as much about community and love as it is about calories and nutrients.

Bringing presence to eating isn’t always easy. It takes practice to resist the pull of distractions and to slow down in a world that often rewards speed and multitasking. But even small moments of mindful eating can ripple out, creating pockets of calm and joy in an otherwise hectic day.

Navigating Challenges and Finding Joy

I wish I could say that once I discovered mindful eating, everything fell neatly into place—that I suddenly knew exactly when I was full, never overate again, and floated through mealtimes like a calm, grounded goddess. But that wouldn’t be honest.

The truth is, my relationship with food is still complicated. I live with Binge Eating Disorder, and that reality doesn’t disappear just because I’ve learned new tools. Some days, those tools feel close and accessible; other days, they feel far away, like I’m trying to reach them through fog.

For a long time, I didn’t have language for what I was experiencing. I just knew that food felt both comforting and confusing. I could go from “I’m not even sure if I’ve eaten today” to “How did I just finish that entire thing?” in what felt like a blink. My body didn’t always send clear signals, and when it did, I didn’t always know how to trust them.

Getting a diagnosis—having a name for Binge Eating Disorder—was both painful and relieving. Painful, because it forced me to look directly at something I had tried to push into the background for years. Relieving, because it meant I wasn’t “broken” or “weak” or “out of control” in the way I’d feared. I was a human being with a real, recognized struggle—and that meant there could be real, compassionate support.

Mindful eating hasn’t “fixed” everything, but it has given me a framework for navigating the hard days with more gentleness.

On stressful days—like during a PCS, when everything feels packed in boxes and nothing is familiar—it’s so easy to slip into survival mode with food. Grab what’s quick. Eat standing up. Snack mindlessly while unpacking. Use food to fill the space where routine used to be. I’ve done all of that. And I probably will again.

But now, I also have anchors.

Meal planning becomes one of those anchors. Even if it’s just deciding, “Okay, tonight we’re doing something simple—frozen veggies, rice, and a protein,” that tiny decision can feel like a lifeline. It tells my brain: We’re still here. We’re still allowed to be nourished, even in the chaos.

Presence becomes another anchor. On the days when my anxiety is loud or my depression feels heavy, I don’t always have the energy for a full, mindful meal. But maybe I can slow down for the first three bites. Maybe I can put my fork down between mouthfuls for a moment. Maybe I can notice one thing about the food—the warmth, the spice, the crunch—and let that be enough for today.

There are also the emotional triggers: rejection, loneliness, overwhelm, the feeling of “too much” and “not enough” all at once. Those are the moments when old patterns come knocking the loudest. The urge to numb out with food, to eat past fullness, to chase comfort in the bottom of a bag or box—it’s real, and it’s strong.

In those moments, mindful eating isn’t about perfection. It’s about staying curious instead of cruel. Asking myself gentle questions like:

• What am I actually needing right now—comfort, rest, reassurance, a break?

• Is there another way I can give myself a piece of that, even if it’s small?

• If I do choose to eat, can I stay with myself while I do it, instead of checking out completely?

Some days, the answer is yes. Other days, it’s not. And that’s part of the journey too.

There’s also joy in this story, and I don’t want to miss that.

Joy looks like my husband and I chopping vegetables together, moving around each other in the kitchen like we’ve been doing this dance for years. It looks like the quiet satisfaction of packing up leftovers because I listened to my body and stopped when I was full. It looks like sitting at a table with family—like my uncle and aunt in San Antonio—choosing to be fully present for their stories, their laughter, their love.

Joy looks like realizing that I can have a complicated relationship with food and still create moments of peace around it. That I can hold both truths at once: that this is hard, and that I am growing.

Mindful eating doesn’t erase my diagnosis or my history. It doesn’t make every meal easy. But it does give me more chances to choose kindness over criticism, awareness over autopilot, and presence over numbness. And in a life that’s full of transitions, moves, and unknowns, those small choices add up to something deeply meaningful.

Practical Tips for Bringing Mindful Eating Into Your Life

I know how overwhelming it can feel when someone says, “Just eat mindfully,” as if it’s a switch you can flip. For many of us—especially if you’re juggling military life, mental health, family responsibilities, or a complicated history with food—it’s not that simple.

So instead of a rigid checklist, I think of mindful eating as a collection of small, gentle experiments. You don’t have to do all of these at once. You don’t even have to do them every day. You can pick one, try it in a low-pressure moment, and see how it feels.

Here are a few practices that have helped me, offered with zero judgment and lots of compassion.

1. Plan Simple Meals With Future-You in Mind

When I sit down to think about meals for the week, I try not to imagine the most ideal version of myself—the one who has endless energy, a spotless kitchen, and a perfectly organized fridge. Instead, I think about the version of me who’s tired after a long day, or emotionally drained after a hard conversation, or worn out from a PCS checklist.

What will she realistically want to cook and eat?

That’s where simple, low-effort meals come in. Things like:

• A pot of soup that can stretch across a couple of days.

• Tacos with pre-chopped veggies and a protein we can cook quickly.

• Breakfast-for-dinner nights where eggs and toast are more than enough.

Planning with future-me in mind is an act of kindness. It’s a way of saying, “I know you’re going to be tired, and I’ve got you.”

If planning a whole week feels like too much, start with one day. Or even one meal. Ask yourself:
What is one meal I can make a little easier for myself this week?

2. Shop With a List (Even a Messy One)

I used to wander grocery aisles hoping inspiration would jump into my cart. Spoiler: it usually didn’t. Instead, I’d end up with random ingredients that didn’t quite go together, plus a few comfort snacks I grabbed out of stress.

Now, even if my list is scribbled on a sticky note or typed quickly into my phone, it gives me a gentle sense of direction. I’m not aiming for perfection—just enough structure to make the trip less overwhelming.

Shopping with a list helps me:

• Spend less money on impulse buys.

• Waste less food because I’m buying for actual meals.

• Avoid that “what on earth do I make with this?” feeling at 6 p.m.

If you’re new to lists, keep it simple. You don’t need a color-coded system. Just write down a few meals you want to be able to make and the ingredients you’ll need. That’s enough.

3. Turn Cooking Into Connection (When You Can)

One of the unexpected joys of this journey has been discovering how much connection can happen in the kitchen.

My husband and I have fallen into a rhythm: I tend to love the prep—the chopping, rinsing, and getting everything ready—and he gravitates toward the actual cooking. There’s something soothing about that shared space: the sound of a knife on the cutting board, the sizzle of food hitting a hot pan, the little taste tests and adjustments as we go.

We talk about our day, laugh about something small, or sometimes just move around each other in comfortable silence. On those nights, cooking doesn’t feel like a chore. It feels like we’re building something together, one meal at a time.

If you have someone you can cook with—your partner, a friend, a roommate, even a child—try inviting them into the process. It doesn’t have to be every night. Even once in a while, turning meal prep into a shared ritual can shift how the whole meal feels.

And if you’re cooking alone, you can still make it feel special: put on music you love, light a candle, open a window and let the evening air in. Let the kitchen be a place where you’re allowed to slow down.

4. Practice the Half-Portion Pause

This one has been huge for me, especially eating out.

When the food arrives at a restaurant, it’s so easy to feel overwhelmed by the portion sizes or pressured to “get your money’s worth.” For someone with Binge Eating Disorder, that pressure can be loud.

My practice now is simple:
I intentionally eat half the portions of each item on my plate, drink some water, and then wait a bit.

That pause is where the magic happens.

It gives my body time to send signals my brain can actually notice. Sometimes, after a few minutes, I realize I’m satisfied. Other times, I realize I’m still genuinely hungry—and then I keep eating without guilt, because I’ve checked in with myself.

This isn’t about restriction. It’s about creating a little space between “plate is full” and “plate is empty,” so I can make a choice instead of just reacting.

If half feels like too much at first, you can start smaller: eat slowly for a few minutes, then pause and ask, How am I feeling? There’s no wrong answer. The win is in the checking-in.

5. Create a Distraction-Free Pocket Around Your Meal

I’m not going to pretend I never eat in front of a screen. Life happens. But I’ve noticed a huge difference when I carve out even a small distraction-free pocket around my meals.

It might look like:

• Putting my phone in another room for the first 10 minutes.

• Closing my laptop and turning my chair away from my desk.

• Letting the TV stay off until after I’ve eaten.

When I do this, I’m much more likely to actually taste my food, notice when I’m getting full, and feel satisfied afterward. The meal becomes an experience instead of a blur.

If a full distraction-free meal feels impossible right now, try starting with the first three bites. For those first bites, no phone, no scrolling, no multitasking. Just you, your food, and your senses. See how that feels.

6. Let Your Senses Lead the Way

One of the simplest ways to practice mindful eating is to let your senses take the lead.

Before you take a bite, you might:

• Look at your food: notice the colors, shapes, and how it’s arranged.

• Smell it: take a slow breath in and see what you notice.

• Feel it: notice the warmth or coolness, the texture on your tongue.

• Taste it: see if you can pick out one or two flavors—herbs, spices, sweetness, saltiness.

You don’t have to do this with every bite. Even doing it once or twice during a meal can shift the experience from automatic to intentional.

For me, this kind of sensory attention is especially powerful when I’m alone. It turns eating into a kind of meditation—a way to come back into my body when my mind feels scattered. When I’m with others, it helps me savor not just the food, but the whole moment: the conversation, the laughter, the feeling of being together.

Reflection

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow, my relationship with food is messy too,” I want you to know you’re not alone. So many of us carry quiet stories about eating—stories shaped by childhood rules, rushed schedules, diet culture, mental health, military life, and the pressure to hold everything together.

Maybe you’ve eaten an entire meal and barely tasted it because your mind was somewhere else.
Maybe you’ve skipped meals without realizing it, only to find yourself ravenous and overwhelmed later.
Maybe you’ve used food as comfort on hard days and then felt guilty afterward.

If any of that sounds familiar, I’m right there with you.

Mindful eating, for me, hasn’t been about becoming the “perfect” eater. It’s been about becoming a kinder companion to myself at the table. It’s about planning just enough to support my future self, and then slowing down enough to actually be present with what’s in front of me—whether that’s a home-cooked meal, takeout on the couch, or a plate at a family celebration.

I’ve learned that the goal isn’t to turn every meal into a Pinterest-worthy moment. The goal is to find small ways to reconnect—with my body, my breath, my people, and my life—through something I already do every day: eat.

So I’d love to invite you into a bit of gentle reflection:

• What does mealtime usually look like for you right now—rushed, peaceful, distracted, joyful, something in between?

• Is there one small shift that might make your meals feel just a little more intentional or comforting?

• Have you ever had a meal where you felt fully present—really there for the food, the moment, or the people around you? What made it feel that way?

If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d truly love to hear your stories. Maybe it’s a simple ritual you’ve created at home, like lighting a candle at dinner. Maybe it’s a local café that feels like a “home between homes,” where you can sit with a warm drink and a quiet corner. Maybe it’s a family tradition—Sunday pancakes, deployment homecoming dinners, or late-night snacks after a long day.

Your moments matter. Your relationship with food, however complicated, is allowed to hold both struggle and beauty. And every small act of presence—every time you pause, taste, breathe, and notice—is a step toward a kinder, more grounded way of nourishing yourself.

With Gratitude and Courage,
Latosha