If you need reminding that small wins are still wins, and that the smallest steps can still mean everything
Originally on my Substack
The week everything felt big.
It was one of those weeks where every emotion exists at the same time. Pride. Exhaustion. Gratitude. Stress. Joy. Hope.
My post about ARFID Andrew facing his fears with mango salsa reached over 11,000 views this week with more than 240 likes. I sat there staring at the numbers for a while because what people were really responding to was not salsa, but Andrew’s courage.His continued attempts to eat food that his body will struggle with in front of an endless audience.
What stayed with me the most was not the numbers but the comments.
Real people, real parents writing things like, “I thought we were alone.” Adults with ARFID saying they finally felt understood. Families recognizing their child staring down at a bowl of food with fear and courage existing at the same time.
So many people connected not because of the mango salsa itself, but because they understood what that moment represented. The invisible victories around food that most of the world never notices. The emotional weight behind a single bite.
And then this week, at the exact same time Andrew’s story was reaching thousands of people, my own son picked up a toothpick with a different type of pasta on it and ate it. It was the size of a pea, it didn’t stay in his mouth, but at least it went in.
Afterward, he casually said, “I don’t care what food I try next.”
I don’t think people fully understand the magnitude of a sentence like that in an ARFID household.
Some families celebrate touchdowns, graduations, trophies, or college acceptances. In my house, sometimes we celebrate a new pasta shape. A toothpick bite. A sentence that would sound ordinary to most people but feels life changing to us.
After I dropped him off at school I held onto those words. They felt victorious.
At the same time, my afterschool cooking program wrapped up for the year, and I introduced two new awards for my students: The Golden Spoon Award and The Golden Knife Award.
As I handed the awards out, I wasn’t met with loud cheering or giant reactions.It was something quieter. Some students smiled awkwardly and looked down. Some held their certificates tightly against their chest. Some tried to act casual while clearly feeling proud inside. There was this shy excitement moving around the room, and honestly, I loved that even more.
Over the years I’ve realized that children want to feel seen, even when they do not fully know how to receive recognition yet. They want someone to notice their effort. Their improvement. Their persistence. The Golden Spoon and Golden Knife awards were never really about cooking. They were about growth.
The student who became more adventurous with flavor. The child who finally slowed down long enough to focus on precision instead of speed. The student who learned how to recover after burning something or messing up a recipe instead of shutting down.
All of it matters. Standing there watching them quietly glow with pride filled me up emotionally in a way that’s hard to explain.
This time of year always feels emotionally overwhelming to me. There are school performances, graduations, ceremonies, concerts, banquets, showcases, and endless end-of-year obligations centered around celebration. Parents are rushing from one event to the next trying to hold onto every moment while simultaneously surviving the chaos of May and June.
And sometimes, in all of that noise, the accomplishments themselves can get lost.
But later, after the dust settles, we find the cookbook left on the counter. The wrinkled certificate tucked into a backpack. The award hanging slightly crooked on the bedroom wall.
And suddenly the moment returns.
We remember who they were that year. What they overcame. What mattered to them. I think that’s why this week has stayed with me so deeply. Because whether it was Andrew trying mango salsa, my son putting a new pasta shape into his mouth, or my students quietly accepting their awards, all of these moments carried the same truth: Growth is often quiet. It does not always arrive as giant life-changing milestones. My son putting a new pasta shape into his mouth was not small. Watching my students hold their certificates against their chest was not small either. These moments look ordinary from the outside, but they become part of how a child sees themselves.
Right now, I’m writing this from my happy place: sitting in bed with a cup of coffee, the curtains open, looking out toward Griffith Park. My body feels tired in that deep, full-body way that arrives after carrying too much for too long.
I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. But underneath the stress is a desire to continue with my purpose.
The emails and phone calls keep coming from parents hoping to get their kids into my cooking program. Some are excited. Some sound desperate. Many are searching for a place where their child can feel successful. The fact that my program has a waitlist still surprises me sometimes.
There are moments where I sit quietly and think: this cooking school I built matters to people. I love it. It reminds me of my favorite quote from A League of their own, “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”
And this week reminded me how important it is to stop long enough to notice growth while it’s happening. Not just the loud accomplishments the world celebrates, but the quieter ones too. Because those moments are not small. They are the building blocks of confidence, identity, trust, and hope.
