What’s for dinner?
It’s such a simple question.
And yet… it drives me crazy.
I hate this topic.
Before I had kids, dinner was just something you ate and maybe even enjoyed.
It wasn’t complicated.
It certainly wasn’t something I obsessed about or dreaded.
Now, after 21 years of parenting, and 21 years of meal planning, it feels like a full-blown logistics operation:
What’s in the freezer?
Is there anything that needs prep hours in advance?
Do we have side dishes?
How much chopping? How much time?
Having to hear, “Chicken… again?”
I often wake up thinking about dinner before I’ve even opened my eyes.
Because dinner is no longer about food.
It’s about mental load.
Invisible labor.
And power.
That’s right. Power.
Because somewhere along the way, it became my job.
To be fair, my husband helps. He cooks. He shows up.
But on his night to handle dinner, takeout is a totally acceptable plan.
On mine? It’s expected to be a full production, with thought, balance, and yes, love.
And here’s the kicker: I don’t just cook dinner.
I build a whole internal monologue around it:
— I’m the only one who will do it because I’m responsible.
— I’m not appreciated.
— I don’t even like dinner.
— Why do these people take me for granted?
Sound familiar?
Maybe for you, it’s not dinner.
Maybe it’s scheduling dentist appointments.
Remembering the vet. Coordinating vacations.
Managing the calendar.
Keeping the fridge stocked.
Tracking birthdays.
Making sure no one (including you) drops a ball.
Or maybe, it’s all of it.
And that’s the real problem.
Because it became more than a task.
It became one more thing I could hide behind.
One more reason to put off my own life.
My dream.
What I wanted.
Sound familiar?
It’s not about dinner.
It’s about the pattern.
Here’s what helped me.
I had to get honest, not just about dinner, but about all the other places in my life where I was holding on too tight.
Where I was doing for others what they could do for themselves.
Where I told myself, “This is what a good mom/wife/person does.”
And then got resentful when I was burned out and had no time left for me.
The dinner story, my belief that my value was wrapped up in doing it “right,” was just a symbol.
A stand-in for all the other places in my life where I overdid in hopes of achieving a certain outcome.
Like when my son was in a play, and I ran his lines with him over and over to make sure he was great, instead of letting him ask for help or figure it out.
Or when my other son needed help with math, and we’d drill times tables until he cried… and I cried… because deep down I believed it reflected on whether I was a good mom.
Or how I wouldn’t ask for help, and then seethed when no one offered it.
Here’s what I started to do instead:
I got honest about what I was trying to control and why.
I asked for help without apologizing.
I let “good enough” be enough.
I gave others the dignity of doing it their way, even if it wasn’t mine.
I stopped tying my worth to effort.
I created space for me, my voice, my dream, my life.
So let me ask you:
What’s your version of dinner?
What are you doing that no one sees but everyone expects?
Where are you holding on too tight?
What dream are you quietly putting off until “later”?
It’s never just about dinner.
It’s about the story underneath.
And the version of you that gets lost in the process.
We break free by telling the truth.
We become BOLD by choosing a new way.
With love (and zero guilt about takeout),
Gretchen
