Breakin’ Bread: Between the Stages, Beneath the Surface

A Food and Grief Article : Bargaining and Depression

Grief keeps teaching me things I didn’t ask to learn, but here I am—taking notes like it’s a masterclass I somehow got a scholarship for. The further I move along these so‑called “stages” (which, let’s be honest, behave less like a staircase and more like a Tilt‑A‑Whirl), the more I realize that the work isn’t about outrunning the feelings. It’s about turning toward them. Letting them sit beside me. Letting them speak.

And the wildest part? Everything around the grief starts to feel… less sharp. Less urgent. Less like it’s trying to swallow me whole. I’m learning how much of my life was built on high alert—walls up, doors cracked just enough to let in the people I trusted to not burn the place down. I had rules. Strict ones. And they kept me safe, until they didn’t.

Because the truth is: living a life rooted in healing requires vulnerability. Requires trust. Requires letting the right ones in and, sometimes painfully, showing others the door. When I say the trauma stops with me, I mean it. But that declaration comes with decisions—hard ones. Ones that tug at the old wounds and whisper, Are you sure?

Last Month: Bargaining (and All the Pleading That Came With It)

At our last Breakin’ Bread gathering, we sat with the Bargaining stage of grief. I shared how bargaining, for me, often shapeshifts into pleading—a deep, burning desire to be seen by people who simply could not or would not see me. That pattern followed me into adulthood, weaving itself into friendships, relationships, work dynamics… everywhere.

Unearthing trauma has a way of making grief feel heavier before it gets lighter. But my goodness—when the light finally breaks through? When you start choosing the right ways to be loved, the right ways to be witnessed? That glow is something fierce.

Folks shared stories about their own bargaining—moments of being seen, moments of being overlooked, moments of trying to negotiate with life itself. And what I heard, over and over, was this:

Sometimes people don’t want advice.
They don’t want solutions.
They don’t want a roadmap.

They want to be heard.
Held.
Not alone.

Breakin’ Bread has become that space. A place where grief doesn’t have to be justified or minimized or tucked away. A place where community says, We see you. We hear you. Sit with us awhile.

And of course, we ate. Potluck style service made room for everyone to participate in their food telling parts of their story. My story last month was about chicken pot pie—its warm, comforting depths mirroring my own longing to belong. Food always tells on us.

This Month: Depression (Yes, We’re Going There)

Now we move into Depression. A stage people whisper about, tiptoe around, pretend they’ve never visited—even though most of us have lived there longer than we care to admit. Some of us have unpacked boxes. Hung curtains. Forwarded our mail.

Depression is a hard place to feed yourself from. Appetite disappears. Energy evaporates. Even the act of deciding what to eat can feel like climbing a mountain with no summit in sight.

So this month, I’m collaborating with my dear friend, pastry chef Christine Moriyasu, to bring you food that meets you where you are. Comforting. Sweet and savory. A little heat for the soul. Bites that are intentional—because when you’re struggling to break the pattern, get out of bed, or leave the house, intention matters.

What’s close?
What’s reachable?
What nourishes when nothing else can?

Television and telephones become companions. Junk food becomes a lifeline. We’re exploring that, too—not with shame, but with honesty.

See You at the Table

Breakin’ Bread is not about fixing grief. It’s about naming it. Sitting with it. Feeding ourselves through it.

I’ll see you at the next gathering, lovelies.
Stage of grief: Depression.
But don’t worry—we’re bringing light, warmth, and a plate full of something that reminds you you’re still here.