I Didn’t Think I Deserved to Write My Cookbook

People often ask me what the hardest part of writing this cookbook was. I could say the countless nights spent recipe testing or the endless hours editing and second-guessing every word. But the hardest part wasn’t the work; it was believing I deserved to write it at all.

For most of my life, I struggled with feeling "good enough." It wasn’t just about achievements; it showed up in how I moved through the world, how I showed up for people, and how often I second-guessed even the things I loved. I grew up around high-achieving people, where excellence wasn’t just celebrated, it was expected. Somewhere along the way, I started believing that if something wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t worth being proud of.

Self-doubt shaped everything. I questioned whether my work was good enough, whether I was taking up too much space or not enough, whether people actually valued what I had to offer or were simply being polite. I could talk myself out of the things I cared about before I even gave myself a chance to try. I compared my insides to everyone else’s outsides and convinced myself I was falling behind in ways no one else seemed to notice. For a long time, I didn’t think I was good enough to even write a cookbook. I almost didn’t start at all. I kept questioning whether I had anything valuable to say, whether anyone would care, whether I was experienced enough, talented enough, extraordinary enough.

Those doubts followed me through every stage of the process:

"Why would someone want a cookbook written by someone who isn’t a professional chef?"
"Does anyone actually care what I have to say?"
"What if no one likes the kind of food I love, since it doesn’t always fit the typical idea of 'healthy'?"

But even with all the fear, when I sat down to write, I knew exactly what I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to create a cookbook that felt intimidating or unattainable. I wanted it to feel accessible, welcoming, and real; a guide that helped people approach food through an evidence-based, realistic, and personalized lens. I wanted it to prioritize simple, balanced meals without asking anyone to erase their culture, their preferences, or their real life to fit a narrow definition of "healthy eating."

Choosing to create a cookbook felt right because food has always been how I learned to take care of myself and others. It’s where nutrition meets life, not perfection.

There were so many intentional choices I fought hard for, some of which weren’t always easy to explain or well-received along the way:

• Bolding action verbs in the directions so recipes would feel easier to follow, especially for readers who get overwhelmed.

• Adjusting portion sizes to ensure recipes actually provide enough protein to feel satisfying and complete.

• Including Nutrition 101 and How-To sections at the beginning of the book, to provide a foundation of knowledge that could empower people rather than overwhelm them.

• Including icons, tables, and illustrations to make the information feel digestible, approachable, and less intimidating.

Because I knew firsthand how easy it was to feel overwhelmed in the kitchen, and I wanted people to feel guided, not judged.

It was my first time writing a cookbook, and I was terrified that the people who bought it wouldn’t understand what I was trying to do, wouldn’t see themselves in it, and would feel like they had wasted their time and money: two resources I know are in limited supply these days. At some point, I realized fear could either keep me stuck, or I could choose to move forward anyway. The work was hard, but choosing to show up, to remain confident in my vision, and to bet on a version of myself I could barely see was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

When the book was finally released on April 8, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was excited, of course, but also deeply terrified. During my book events, people would come up to me and tell me how much they loved the book. I worried at first that they were just being kind, but it’s been so much more than that.

Seeing people connect to the book, not just for what it is but for what it represents in their own lives, has been one of the most moving experiences of my life. Hearing people say they feel seen in its pages, that the recipes make them feel comforted, capable, and excited about food again, made me realize something important: the heart of this book was never about proving I was enough. It was about being real.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve held events in Boston, New York City, and Los Angeles — three places that have been so formative during different stages of my life.

Boston, where I grew up in ways I never expected.
NYC, where I learned how to take risks and let myself be seen for who I really am.
LA, where I learned how to build a life that finally felt like mine.

Coming back to these places during such a meaningful time felt surreal, as if I were revisiting all the different versions of myself who once lived there and didn’t think any of this would be possible. But coming back to Boston, especially, cracked me open in ways I wasn’t expecting.

This was the place that pushed me to be more than I thought I could be.
The place that pushed me to my breaking point more than once.
The place I tried to escape when I felt like I would never be good enough for it.
The place where I developed my terrible sleep schedule after too many late nights studying in grad school and during my internship.
The place that made me want to take up more space, even when I didn’t know how.
The place that made me feel out of place, and made me realize how badly I wanted to find somewhere I belonged.

And yet, despite everything, I missed it without fully understanding why. It wasn’t because life here had been easy or simple. It was because this place held pieces of me that didn’t exist anywhere else. Missing it wasn’t about wanting to relive the struggle. It was about honoring what this city gave me: the people I loved, the memories that shaped me, the version of myself who fought so hard to keep going even when it felt impossible.

Boston didn’t just witness my growth; it demanded it. It held the grief and the becoming all at once. I’m realizing now that sometimes we miss the places that hurt because they also hold some of our truest moments. Sometimes, we miss the meaning, not the happiness. Sometimes, we miss the person we were struggling so hard to become. Coming back during a time when I could finally allow myself to feel proud reminded me of all the versions of myself that existed before this one. And sitting here, content and (a little more) confident in this coffee shop, 2.5 weeks post-book launch, I can finally say:

It was never about being perfect.
It was always enough.
Boston taught me that.

All those years ago, I felt like I was never enough for the city, for the people around me, or for the version of success I thought I had to chase. But I finally realized that becoming isn’t always loud or graceful. Sometimes it’s messy, slow, and invisible even to yourself.

All along, Boston had taught me something I didn’t know I would need: how to keep showing up before I felt ready. How to trust that trying was enough. Writing this cookbook was another version of that lesson. It wasn’t about waiting until I had achieved some perfect, polished version of myself. It was about showing up anyway. It was about trusting that the version of me who doubted and questioned still had something worth sharing.

This book isn’t just a collection of recipes. It’s a tangible result of all the lessons I learned in lecture halls, in hospital rooms, and in tiny apartments at 4 a.m. when I wasn’t sure if I was moving forward or just standing still. It’s the book I needed when I felt overwhelmed, when I felt behind, when I needed permission to keep it simple and still be proud.

It’s a reminder that nourishing yourself doesn’t have to be complicated or perfect to be meaningful. That food can be a soft place to land. That taking care of yourself isn’t about doing everything right; it’s about showing up, even in small ways, even on the hard days. And if there’s anything I hope this book leaves behind, it’s this:

You don’t have to wait until you feel ready.

You don’t have to earn the right to take up space.

You don’t have to be perfect; you just have to stay true to yourself, even when it’s hard.

You are enough, even in the moments when you can’t see it yet.