To Feed or Not to Feed: How I Stopped Feeding My Mind Pity and Started Feeding My Mind Equanimity

I never imagined that something as ordinary as eating would become a distant memory. Since December 24, 2024, I have not tasted a morsel of food, not felt the warmth of a freshly cooked meal, nor enjoyed the simple pleasure of chewing. Instead, my sustenance comes through a PEG tube, a lifeline that keeps my body nourished even when my senses crave the experience of eating.

At times, self-pity creeps in like an uninvited guest. The mind whispers, "Look how I'm not going to taste the fried carrot cake again. Look how great it will be if I still can take a bite out of that cake." And in those moments, it's easy to sink into despair, to dwell on what was and what will never be again. But then, I remind myself: what we feed grows. If I keep feeding my mind with with unnecessary, unconducive self-pity thoughts, it will grow like an unkempt vine, twisting and tightening around a tree. No matter how strong or tall the tree may be, it will slowly vanish, entirely consumed by the vine’s relentless grasp.

The Illusion of Loss

Buddhism teaches us about impermanence—the idea that nothing remains unchanged. Everything we attach to, be it our ability to eat or the comfort of routine, will one day shift or dissolve. Clinging to what was, grieving what is no longer there, only tightens the chains of suffering. Instead, true peace lies in acceptance.

I reflect on the Buddha’s words: “Attachment leads to suffering.” I can mourn the loss of eating, or I can embrace this experience with equanimity. The absence of food on my tongue does not equate to the absence of nourishment in my being. My body is still sustained. My life is still meaningful. The essence of who I am is not tied to what I can or cannot eat.

Cutting Off the Supply of Suffering

Just as my PEG tube delivers nutrients to my body, my mind thrives on what I choose to feed it. If I continuously provide it with sorrow, regret, and longing, it will grow accustomed to that diet. But what happens if I change the supply? What if I nourish it with gratitude, mindfulness, and acceptance?

There is power in knowing that suffering is optional. Pain may arise, but whether I allow it to linger and take root is a choice. Instead of thinking, I miss food, I can shift my perspective: I am grateful for this tube, for this chance to live, to sustain, to experience life in a different way.

Seeing Beyond the Surface

In Buddhist philosophy, suffering is not to be avoided or suppressed, but rather understood. When I feel sorrow about my situation, I ask myself: Who is suffering? Who is this “I” that clings to the past? When I look deeply, I see that it is the ego, the part of me that clings to identity and the illusion of control.

But what if I let go? What if I observe my situation with detachment, like a leaf floating on a river? The reality is, my body is adapting. My life is continuing. The suffering only exists when I compare my present to my past.

Yet, the changes are undeniable. Meeting friends now comes with restrictions—no more spontaneous lunches or late-night dinners. I have to plan my meetups around my feeding schedule, ensuring I have enough time to return home and sustain myself through the tube. There are moments when I watch my friends ordering their favorite dishes, laughing over a shared meal, and I feel a pang of longing. It is not just about the food but the ease, the fluidity of social interactions that I once took for granted.

Still, I remind myself: life is different now, but it is not lesser. My connections are not defined by what I eat with my friends, but by the moments we share. Instead of focusing on what I lack, I focus on the quality of my time with them. The laughter, the conversations, the warmth of companionship—these remain unchanged. When I let go of the idea that dining together is the only way to bond, I begin to see new ways of cherishing relationships.

Finding Joy in a New Way

Perhaps the absence of food has created space for new forms of joy. I find pleasure in the conversations that happen around a dinner table, even if I am not eating. I savor the scent of food, appreciating its richness without the need to consume it. I notice how my body feels—lighter, more in tune, more aware.

Each moment presents an opportunity for mindfulness. Instead of focusing on what I lack, I focus on what I have. Instead of drowning in self-pity, I anchor myself in the present. The Buddha teaches us that suffering comes not from circumstances, but from our resistance to them. When we stop resisting, suffering ceases to exist.

The True Nourishment of Life

Life is more than food. It is laughter, connection, love, and presence. It is the simple act of breathing, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the kindness exchanged in a smile. These, too, are forms of nourishment. These, too, sustain me.

I am learning that true fulfillment comes not from what enters the body, but from what flows through the mind and heart. Equanimity is not about denying pain; it is about seeing beyond it. And in doing so, I find peace, not in what I have lost, but in all that remains.