The Last Thing I Ever Cooked for Him

Recipe for Walking Away

Preparation Time: However long it takes to remember who you are

Serves: You

Ingredients

• 4 heaping cups of courage (Preferably organic, not store-bought)

• 3 tablespoon of midnight tears (stored in cold)

• 1 container of unanswered texts

• 5 crushed dreams and given up ambitions (optional, but highly recommended for better flavor)

• 1 suitcase packed with clothes, self-respect, and every version of you he ignored

• a dash of anger (be careful with the portions, don't overdo unless necessary)

• 2 girlfriends on speed dial (saved as "mom" and "cuz")

• 1 crashout playlist (preferably containing rage, rebirth and Rihanna)

Instructions

1. Begin by thawing your courage.

It’s probably been frozen solid for a while, buried beneath excuses like “he’s tired,” “he doesn’t mean it,” or the classic “maybe it’s me.” Let it sit out overnight. Courage takes time. You can’t rush a thaw. Let the warmth of your truth melt it slowly. You were never too much. You were just too awake for someone who wanted to sleep through accountability— it’ll need time.

2. While you wait, inventory the damage.

Don’t flinch. Count the times you bit your tongue until it bled. The times you laughed at jokes that hurt. The times you folded yourself into origami to fit inside the box he built for you — labeled “acceptable,” “quiet,” “convenient.”

Spoiler: You were never meant to be folded. You were born to spread. Unfold. Unapologetically.

3. Preheat your resolve.

Turn it up to 180° — no, make it 500°. Nevermind, Set it to hellfire. You’re going to need heat. Real heat. The kind that he wasn't able to give you. The kind that burns through guilt, shame, and the cold, beige idea of settling. Oh, and the fear of losing you in his eyes. Trembling fear under his skin— the fear that he’ll lose you the moment he finally realizes what he had? That’s not your burden to carry. Let this one cook.

4. In a large bowl, mix midnight tears with the container of unanswered texts.

Let it thicken into disappointment. Stir slowly, watching it become a gluey mess — like the conversations you tried to have but couldn’t finish. Add in the sound of your name when he said it like it was an inconvenience. Mix until you no longer recognize the version of yourself who waited three hours for a text that said “k.” Stir in every time he made you feel small, every time he forgot you, every time he said “you’re overreacting” when you weren’t.

5. Fold in the crushed dreams gently.

Don’t rush on this step. Let each one remind you of the girl who wanted more than being someone else’s afterthought. If they make your eyes sting — good. That means they’re still alive. And you're doing it right. You might feel them twitch — they’re not dead, just forgotten. Stir them back to life gently. Let them remember what it felt like to want things.

To sing.

To write.

To dance without apologizing for taking up space.

6. Season with anger.

A dash is enough for spice. Enough to wake you up. You’re not here for revenge — you’re here for rebirth. But if the anger simmers too long, let it. It’ll burn off eventually. Add a spoonful of self-respect to balance the flavor.

7. Add a spoonful of self-respect.

This is the thickener. Without it, everything falls apart.Taste it. It’s bitter at first — especially if you’ve gone without it for too long. But let it settle. You’ll find it’s exactly what you’ve been craving.

7.5. Now pause. Stir in the ancestors.

Yes — really.

All the women who came before you — the ones who stayed too long, who dimmed themselves to survive, who smiled with cracked lips and called it “fine.” Pull them into the recipe.

Your great-grandmother who wasn’t allowed to choose.

Your mother, who apologized for being tired.

Your sister, who was anxious to believe in herself.

Your younger self, who begged to be loved louder.

Let their voices rise from the pot.

Let them remind you that walking away is not weakness — it is revolution.

That your softness is not fragile — it is sacred.

That choosing yourself is not selfish — it is ancestral revenge served hot.

You do not walk alone.

You walk with a lineage of women who prayed you’d be bold enough to do what they couldn’t, what seems so simple but isn't.

8. Add your girlfriends.

Toss them in. They’ll keep the dish from falling apart. Make sure they’re the kind that say, “We’re outside in 5” when you say, “I think I might do it.”

9. Blast your crash-out playlist.

Not quietly. Not respectfully. You’re not mourning — you’re molting. Play the one that he hated and called "girl music" so you only played when you had headphones on.

10. Pour everything into your suitcase.

Pack your softness. Your spines. That red lipstick he said was “too loud.” Leave behind the hoodie he loved — let it rot in the corner with his emotional availability. Pack the shoes he hated. They make you taller. Taller than him , guess that's why he hated. Pack the mirror you stopped looking into. It remembers who you are.

11. Bake in silence.

Do not answer when he calls.

Do not open the voice messages.

Do not reread the texts that say “I miss you.”

Let it rise. Don’t answer when he calls. Don’t even bother to explain. Don’t text him “I just wanted to say—” No. His actions were loud enough. Your silence has said enough.

13. Garnish.

With fresh boundaries. A new city. Unapologetic joy. Wear your favorite dress — the one you didn’t wear because he said it looked “too confident.” But was because he was too insecure. Walk out like a storm in heels. Be too much. Be unstoppable.

14. Serve with freedom.

Add as much as you wish.

Eat it under moonlight, surrounded by women who would never ask you to shrink.

Eat it on your own and feel whole.

This dish is all yours now.

She Left — And It Was Delicious.