There are days when motherhood (and life, let’s be honest) feels like one long audition for the Bare Minimum Olympics. You’re running late, the toddler has turned into a human siren, your inbox is crying louder than your child, and your reflection in the mirror has the audacity to whisper, “Wow… gravity has really committed to you, hasn’t it?”
On those days, you don’t want a motivational quote. You don’t want kale chips or a vision board. You want a hug. A proper one — the kind that melts your bones, steadies your nervous system, and maybe murmurs into your hair, “You’re doing amazing, babe.”
But instead of arms wide open, the universe sometimes hands you:
- A toddler tantrum so fierce it could be weaponised in riot control training.
- Three passive-aggressive texts you don’t have the bandwidth to respond to.
- A laundry pile that now has squatters’ rights.
- And a fridge containing nothing but a bag of shredded cheese and the faint echo of your will to live.
And suddenly, that bag of cheese isn’t just dairy. It’s destiny. It’s coping, comfort, and clogging your arteries in one handy, resealable pouch. It’s emotional eating with a passport and a boarding pass marked “Non-Stop Flight to Survival.”
Because here’s the truth nobody puts in self-help books: sometimes life doesn’t hand you lemons. Sometimes it hands you cheese.
“I didn’t fall off the wagon. I slipped on a cube of tasty and landed in a vat of emotional ricotta.”
When You Need Comfort and the Universe Hands You Dairy
Some days, you open the fridge looking for food. Other days, you open it looking for hope. Not kale. Not a probiotic yoghurt. Not even something you could convincingly put on a plate and call “dinner.” No — you’re looking for something cold, yellow, and emotionally flexible.
That’s how I ended up with a bag of shredded tasty cheese clutched to my chest like it was a weighted blanket. It wasn’t food. It was a lifeline. A dairy-based therapy session. A lactose-soaked love letter to myself.
I didn’t fall off the wagon. I slipped on a cube of tasty and landed in a vat of emotional ricotta.
Because here’s the thing — when life knocks you down, cheese doesn’t ask questions. Cheese doesn’t care if you’re still wearing yesterday’s bra. Cheese doesn’t demand you explain why you cried at a TikTok of a duck befriending a dog. Cheese simply says: “Shhh… you don’t have to feel that right now. I’ve got you.”
And on that day, I needed to believe it.
The First Handful is Never Just the First Handful
I told myself it would just be a sprinkle. Just a cheeky little handful straight from the bag. A pinch of dairy courage to take the edge off.
But let’s be real: the first handful is a liar.
Because one handful becomes two.
Two becomes four.
And suddenly, you’re standing at the fridge like a raccoon in pyjamas, gripping fistfuls of shredded cheddar like it’s confetti for your own pity party.
At that point, it’s not even snacking — it’s survival. It’s a feral communion ritual between me and the gods of dairy. No plate. No dignity. Just me, the fridge light, and a bag of cheese that should’ve lasted a week but barely made it through an episode of Bluey.
Stress eating is like a dodgy Tinder date — you think you’ll just “see how it goes,” but three hours later you’re in way too deep, questioning your life choices, and wondering why you didn’t stop when you had the chance.
That’s the truth about the first handful: it’s never the last. It’s just the gateway drug to a full-blown cheese bender.
Cheese: The Original Emotional Support Animal
Some people cope with journaling, deep breathing, or talking it out. Me? I cope with cheddar.
Because cheese has been my emotional support animal since before I could spell coping mechanism. Forget Labradoodles and therapy cats — I’ve got Colby. Cheese doesn’t need walking. Cheese doesn’t shed on the couch. Cheese doesn’t pee on the carpet. Cheese just waits patiently in the fridge until the moment life finally pushes you over the edge and whispers, “Come to me, my child.”
And the best part? Cheese doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care if you rip open the bag like a raccoon on bin night. It doesn’t care if you eat it by the fistful while muttering “this is self-care” into the fridge light. Cheese is loyal. Silent. Dairy with zero boundaries.
It isn’t promising wellness. It isn’t here to fix your problems. Cheese only promises this: “For the next few bites, you won’t have to think about anything else.”
And honestly? That’s why it works.
The Fantasy: My Five-Star Cheese Spa
When a comfort food craving hits and stress eating is in full swing, my brain doesn’t just want a snack — it wants an experience. So naturally, it designed the world’s first five-star cheese spa.
I picture it like this: I check in wearing the plushest robe known to humanity, am offered a calming herbal tea, and am immediately escorted to the Cheddar Lounge for “emotional decompression.” There’s soft music, warm lighting, and the faint, comforting smell of baked camembert in the air.
The treatment menu is perfection:
- The Mozzarella Wrap — where I’m swaddled in warm, stretchy comfort while an empathetic spa attendant whispers affirmations like “You are melting beautifully.”
- The Brie Glow Facial — for when your pores and your spirit both need softening.
- The Gouda Massage — because sometimes the only knots you want are in your cheese board.
- And my personal favourite: The Fondue Foot Soak — purely for relaxation, with strict “no snacks from this pot” rules.
It’s indulgent. It’s absurd. And it’s exactly how my comfort food brain translates self-care when I’m one emotional eating episode away from Googling “can stress be cured with a wheel of Edam?”
But alas, my creamy dream is not a reality….yet. For now, it lives in my fantasy file… right next to “sleeping for twelve uninterrupted hours” and “finding jeans that fit in both the waist and thighs.”
Why We Turn to Cheese in Times of Crisis
Here’s the thing: emotional eating is rarely about hunger. It’s about capacity. Or more specifically — the complete and utter lack of it.
Some days, my brain is full. Like, out-of-office, mailbox-over-quota full. My body is wound tighter than a $2 Kmart yo-yo. And my soul? A crumpled tea towel at the bottom of the laundry basket, damp and smelling faintly of defeat. On those days, I don’t need a salad. I need salvation.
And weirdly, cheese is the only thing volunteering to hold me together.
I wasn’t craving food. I was craving:
- Rest. (The mythical kind you see in mattress ads where everyone looks happy in beige linen.)
- Relief. (Not the two-minute variety where you scroll Instagram in the toilet pretending you don’t live here.)
- Permission. Permission to fall apart without being told, “Have you tried a walk?” (Yes, Karen, I’ve tried a walk. You know what’s on that walk? My problems. And a swoopy magpie.)
- A moment where the world doesn’t demand anything from me.
And cheese? Cheese got there first. It always does.
Because cheese doesn’t give motivational speeches. Cheese doesn’t tell you to journal it out or light a candle or manifest harder. Cheese is low-maintenance comfort. Cheese says: “I may not fix your life, babe, but for the next three fistfuls, you won’t have to think about it.”
And that is why cheese wins in times of crisis. Not because it’s healthy. Not because it’s noble. But because it’s immediate, salty, and blessedly silent.
It’s the therapy session you can buy for $6.99 on special at Woolies.
It always does.
“Sometimes you just need a bag of cheese and the quiet permission to eat it without shame.”
Cheese and Science: A Love Story in Your Brain
Science says cheese lights up the same part of your brain as falling in love. Which makes sense, because I’ve cried over both, but only cheese showed back up in the fridge when I needed it. Men ghost. Cheese doesn’t.
Apparently, when you bite into cheese, your brain releases dopamine — that little chemical spark that says, “Ah yes, we live another day.” Translation? That fistful of Colby isn’t just food — it’s a legal mood-altering substance in shredded form. No wonder one handful feels good, two handfuls feel better, and four handfuls have you floating in a dairy-fuelled nirvana where you briefly consider founding your own religion: The Church of the Eternal Cheeseboard.
And let’s talk about casein, the protein in cheese that breaks down into casomorphins, which have opiate-like effects. In other words, cheese literally contains tiny edible hugs for your nervous system. Is it addictive? Science says yes. Do I care? Absolutely not. If loving cheese is wrong, then slap a rehab bracelet on me and point me toward the fondue fountain.
There are also studies claiming cheese activates more pleasure centres in the brain than chocolate. More than chocolate. You know what that means? Dairy has officially beaten dessert in the Hunger Games of Happiness. If that’s not Nobel Prize material, I don’t know what is.
And while kale, quinoa, and green juice are all busy lobbying to be the poster children of wellness, cheese is just quietly doing God’s work — one dopamine hit at a time. It doesn’t need a marketing campaign. It doesn’t need Gwyneth Paltrow to rename it “fermented lunar dairy essence” and sell it for $80. Cheese already knows it has you. It’s science, babe.
So next time someone side-eyes you for inhaling half a block of cheddar, tell them this: “Actually, I’m engaging in a highly advanced neurochemical self-regulation strategy. Look it up.”
Because the truth is simple: cheese hacks your brain. It says, “Here, have love, have joy, have a reason to keep going — all for $6.99 a bag at Woolies.”
And honestly? That’s the best science I’ve ever heard.
A Love Letter to My Fellow Cheese-Faced Warriors
To everyone who has ever stood in the fridge light at midnight, clutching a block of cheddar like it’s a flotation device — I see you.
If you’ve eaten your feelings in dairy form, I see you.
If you’ve whispered, “I’ll do better tomorrow,” while licking Colby off your fingers, I salute you.
If you’ve pictured a five-star cheese spa and thought, “Yes, that would fix me,” I stand beside you, robe on, ready for my Fondue Foot Soak.
You are not weak. You are not gross. You are not a failure wrapped in cling wrap. You are a human being with emotions, responsibilities, and — crucially — a fridge. And that makes you resourceful. That makes you dangerous. That makes you delicious.
Because cheese isn’t shame. Cheese is proof that you are still here, still trying, still finding scraps of comfort when the world gives you none. Cheese is survival with a sodium content. Cheese is resilience in dairy form.
So let’s stop pretending it’s just about food. It’s about coping, about care, about grabbing whatever the hell gets you through the night. And if that happens to be a kilo bag of shredded tasty, then babe, you’re in good company.
To my fellow cheese-faced warriors: may your fridge always be stocked, may your arteries forgive you, and may you never underestimate the quiet, salty power of a dairy-fuelled breakdown.
And if anyone tries to shame you for it? Just smile, lick the parmesan dust off your fingers, and remember: they wish they were as brave as you.
Final Thoughts: Dairy Doesn’t Judge
I wish I could say I handled my stress with Pilates and peppermint tea, but the truth is messier — and cheesier. And honestly? That’s okay.
Because sometimes the thing that keeps you going isn’t discipline, or kale, or another bullet-point plan. Sometimes it’s a fistful of shredded cheddar in the glow of the fridge light.
Not glamorous. Not Instagrammable. But real. Comforting. Enough.
And maybe that’s the bigger lesson: survival doesn’t have to look pretty to count.
So here’s to the cheese binges that saved us, the dairy hangovers that humbled us, and the reminder that we’re still here — laughing, coping, and choosing ourselves… one bag of tasty at a time.
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