I have never really been able to distinguish between food and emotion. The two are inextricably linked in my mind, blurring and blending into each other with the fluidity of a rich blueberry and yogurt smoothie. If I pause to examine moments of heightened emotion in my childhood, food has always been part of those memories — seemingly on the sidelines but really the star of the show. My determinedly North Indian family is all about their butter chicken and lassi. Our family gatherings begin with an array of tenderly tandoori kebabs, cottage cheese and peanuts. Then when the conversation, which mostly revolves around films, food and family, is exhausted, we waddle to the dining table, which is groaning under the weight of the next three courses of dinner.

Growing up, food meant festivities and family. It meant laughter and health. It meant munching on butter-soaked naan as a teatime snack during sultry evenings spent on cousins’ couches in Delhi, as we watched Agent Cody Banks 2 for the twentieth time. Seasonal changes were documented by the different foods we could have. No memory of a happy summer would be complete without a tall glass of mango milkshake for breakfast, just before a day spent playing hide and seek in the sun. The monsoon would always be announced by the smell of freshly roasted corn on the cob, cooked in the little carts by street vendors, whose hot coal provided embers of warmth for the rain-spattered promenades next to the sea. You’d expect a description of winter foods next, but there are really only two seasons where I live — hot and wet.

I had a happy childhood, so my relationship with food was a happy one. But things began to go sour like low-fat Al Ain milk past its expiration date when I stopped being so happy with myself.

As I said before, it has been hard for me to draw the line between food and emotions.  I could blame several things in my life for my dysfunctional relationship with food: I could cower behind the fact that I’ve lived as a dancer for most of my life and have never been completely happy with the movements I encountered in the mirror; I could lament the appearance-obsessed environment I had existed in for such a long period of time; I could regret wayward habits that drove me to isolation, unhealthy practices and seriously untasty food.

But I lament nothing, I regret nothing and I refuse to cower any longer.

In this past year I have begun to reinvent my relationship to what goes into my body. Unsurprisingly, what has been reinvented more than anything is my capacity for gratitude for new adventures, good memories and delicious food. I’ve been able to devour a honeycrisp apple the size of my face from a farmer’s markets in New York with the same enthusiasm as a leg of lamb in Liwa — and not regret a single bite or moment of either. This is a huge progression for someone who used to hate herself for a lack of so-called willpower until the gym opened the next day.

I am beginning to understand that food is sustenance, not seduction. It gives me energy, so it isn’t the enemy.  And eating right can mean different things for different people. Stigmatizing each other based on diet can be as damaging as rudely commenting on somebody’s appearance. If someone judges you for being a vegan, a vegetarian, a hardcore meat eater or anywhere in between, I hope you have the strength to tune them out and wish them well. You should be identified by what’s on your mind, not what is on your plate. I have learned this the hard way. I only hope someone in a similar situation can benefit from the experience that I have learned so much from.