I had a strange ritual. When I ate chocolate, I closed my eyes. Not to savor it. But to not see myself. Years of imposed restrictions, thousands of phrases like: "You'll be grateful to yourself later," "This is not food, this is weakness." And all this was whispered somewhere in the back of my head, every time I brought something "out of plan" to my lips.

I remember how as a child I secretly ate condensed milk with a spoon from a can. I hid behind the curtain. And not because it was forbidden. But because there was something in it... too personal. Too tasty to share with someone. Now I think that I didn't just eat then - I resisted. Without words, without slogans. Just with sugar.

And recently I caught myself standing with my eyes closed again. Already an adult, already smart, already supposedly free. And inside, the same girl behind the curtain. Only now with a fitness club card, a trainer, and a calorie tracker. I opened my eyes. And for the first time I saw myself eating. With guilt. With tension in my jaw. With the expectation of punishment.

And you know what I did? I bought three types of chocolate. One with caramel, the second - dark with salt, and the third - with raspberries. I laid them out on a white towel. And sat down. Just eat. Look. Chew. Feel. Not think, not devalue, not plan the next run. I wanted to give myself this feeling. Without bargaining.

Why is it so hard to allow yourself simple pleasure? Why are we taught to suffer, endure, limit - and almost never taught to feel, accept, be in the moment? It took me too many years to understand: I do not have to deserve taste.

That evening I ate all the chocolate. Without remorse. Without "I'll start a new life on Monday." Just like that. And something clicked inside. As if I handed over the key to the storage room where I kept my desires on a chain. And maybe it wasn't a feat. But for me, it was a period.

Now I eat slowly. With my eyes open. And not just chocolate. I "eat" music, and sunlight, and the morning smell of skin, and a book on the floor, and tap water. And all this is not a reward. It's just life.

If I ever want to hide with a can of condensed milk again, I won't scold myself. I'll just sit next to it. Without a curtain. Because now I know how to stay with myself even in the sweetest moments.