When I was younger, nearly every notable event in my life included sacred space for food. I recently re-read parts of my pre-teen diaries and more than a quarter of the entries are about food: roasted beef stew and rice at an aunt’s wedding; a cake at a cousin’s birthday; a fanta citron from my grandparents to celebrate good grades. Writing about a visit to Le Printemps, a local restaurant, I describe the meal with obsessive detail, from the way the chicken was roasted – appropriately seasoned but bordering on dry, the crispiness of the fries, the ketchup brand – Heinz in a glass bottle, to how long it took for the food to arrive (about an hour). As far as I can remember, I have always been drawn to the ceremony of gathering around a meal and thought of it as indicative, if not essential to a good life; to me, full bellies are synonymous to full hearts. 

In adulthood, food has become a catalyst for many significant conversations and decisions in my life. It has expanded from a purely celebratory affair to include a recognition of an abundance of privileges: relative financial stability, the benefit of being reared by a culture that values food as key part of community building, geographical luck that facilitates easy access to nutritious meals, caregivers with enough time and resources to feed us as they’d like, and much more. My love for food and running has exposed me to the widespread disordered eating in the running community, yet the prominence of food deserts, the challenges of equitable access, the complicated relationship between food and the environment, and the cultural significance that food carries in different communities. From the first post-peak pandemic group meal: anniversary soy braised short ribs, pre-protest melancholic glass noodles, solitary left-over stir fry to period cravings of ginger and black tea cookies, and every flavor in between, food-centric experiences remain the an essential source of artifacts chronicling my life. As with the commiseration over a miserable workout, the shared labor of a last mile, long lasting friendships and partnerships have been and continue to be nurtured over the warmth of a shared meal. 

In fact, I owe most of my partnership to food and running. On our first date, my partner remarked on our shared love for running and food as key parts of what drew him to me. I was similarly impressed that he could debate the qualities of the different iterations of Nike Pegasus, that our first few dates sampled distinct cuisines – Indian, Cuban, Mediterranean – and that he knew nearly as much as I do about the East African running scene. Every year since, our shared food and running experience are key features in the poem that he writes to me on my birthday. Over time, my understanding and relationship to food picked up layers of complexity and nuance, but fundamentally, it remains a sanctuary; a place to hold and be held, shatter and rebuild.

The relationship, particularly in the division of labor, shook out along the heteronormative lines and quickly became the epicenter of our growth as individuals and a couple. I was now prompted to engage with questions that raised conflicts between different beliefs: a love for cooking and feeding loved ones existing alongside a fear of living out a 50s housewife trope. Was there going to come a day when he would come home and expect to find food at the table? Would I be the one to do the mental labor of charting our food journey in addition to the physical labor? Would we seamlessly align our palettes and budgets? What was our definition of equity when it came to domestic labor? 

All ensuing conversations to come together around these concerns and fears are at best, ongoing. We have some go-to roles: when one cooks, and the other cleans, but we are always fine-tuning the definition of a clean kitchen to meet both our standards (the current iteration is sink, stove, floors, dishes, counters). We share the responsibility for maintaining grocery lists and runs, but constantly adjust to accommodate work schedules and other commitments. We define a budget that takes into account income, taste, quality, and diet, more often than not miss it, but continue to revise it to add more flexibility. We are always editing, attempting to play to each other’s strengths whilst acknowledging our limitations. At their most tense, the questions and ensuing conversations have been tantamount to an existential threat to the collection of beliefs and values that I turn to when I need to distinguish myself from my seven billion neighbors. They challenge me to remember that I am not static and neither are my beliefs. That in order to live a full life, I have to evolve and meet my life where it is.

As runners, we both share a love for the sport, but have different histories and perspectives around it. Unlike my partner whose relationship with running appears to be relatively seamless and effortless, a well choreographed dance between two old friends, my relationship with running has experienced a more fraught trajectory. During my first high school cross country meet, I went out too hard, nearly rolled an ankle, and hobbled mid-race with my head hung low in shame. I came back the next week ready to brush it off, but traces of a fear of failure that was activated many years ago still linger. Today, missing my run can ruin my entire day, getting myself out of the house is at times the hardest thing I do all day, and yet, I cannot seem to give it up, and even claim to love it. 

Internalizing the lessons from that first race, that it is not possible to plan to control everything, that some days the body isn’t up to par, the weather affects you differently, your trusted nutrition lets you down, remains an ongoing process. But learning that my love for this experientially and mentally taxing practice has little to do with meeting X distance or Y time goals, though those achievements give me great joy, but has more to do with self-regulation: shaking out excess energy, purging dark thoughts, re-energizing when low and feeling part of this big global community. That's what keeps me coming back.

 In my partnership, food and running have been at the center of most conflict, growth, and joy. We have learned that I do not respond well to certain brands of running advice, no matter how well meaning. That for him, space is the preferred form of support after one of his bad runs. Despite our differences, we are in constant awe of the joy that sharing food brings us. The promise of chocolate milk Norwegian waffles, a recipe that has undergone many iterations (axe regular milk, blueberries, define the apt level of crispiness) is the rainbow at the end of the Saturday long run, watermelon and popsicles mark the beginning of the summer dog days, and a compromise on a dairy free and reduced meat diet, the source of inspiration for new culinary ventures. In our conversations and choices, we are continually negotiating to accommodate both of our relationships to running and food; an experience that is reflective of our beliefs and kind to our fears.