Giving Myself Permission Not to Be Vegan
My history of disordered eating means that I need to be insulated from the lure of restriction in the name of justice
When I was a teenager, I spent many of my idle moments envisioning what adulthood would look like. I’m 22 now, legally an adult but still of the age where long-term consequences seem abstract and ten years forward seems like a greater distance than ten years past. I continue to spend a lot of time dreaming about what I will be doing when I’m a “proper” grownup. Like most financially struggling young people, most of my fantasies see myself as someone with the money to fully furnish and decorate my apartment and travel outside the DC area.
At thirteen, it never occurred to me that I would have the ability to drive and vote and drink and talk to other adults about grownup things, while simultaneously fighting to live a life that was healthy and worthwhile. It made sense to me that as a white, suburban middle schooler and newly christened ethical vegetarian, adulthood meant the freedom to live outside my parents’ house and make dietary choices that were centered on compassion for animals. To thirteen year old me, I would go off to college and become the cool, bohemian vegan who cooked three meals a day and never worried about anything more than the…
