I grew up in a house where roles were quietly, but firmly, divided. The kind of home where cooking wasn’t just something women did — it was what defined them. We had help for almost everything else — cleaning, laundry, even the cars — but cooking? That was sacred. That was women’s territory.

My mother cooked no matter what. Whether she was exhausted, sick, or coming home late from work, the stove always had her name on it. It wasn’t a task; it was a duty, a badge of honor, and it was never questioned even by her.

Maybe that’s why my sisters and I don’t feel the same way about the kitchen. We didn’t inherit her pride in it. To us, it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like pressure, expectation, and being gently pushed into a box we never asked to be in.

Growing up, we were taught — directly and indirectly — that cooking was part of being a good woman. That it proved your worth. That it could win you love, respect, even a marriage proposal. “Is this how you’ll behave in your husband’s house?” they’d ask, not really as a question, but as a warning. The messages were everywhere — soft, subtle, dressed up as advice, but always loaded. Always clear.

I watched girls in school wake up at dawn to cook for boyfriends who didn’t even know their birthdays. I saw friends carry pots and coolers across campus like offerings — hoping their meals would be enough to keep someone’s attention, to earn a little more love. And I knew then: that was never going to be me.

Not cooking for the men I date isn’t about being petty. It’s my quiet protest. My way of saying: I refuse to perform love on a plate. I can cook — and I often do. But I won’t do it because it’s expected. Because I’m trying to prove I’m “wife material.” The moment it feels like a test, the kitchen is closed.

There was a time I lived near someone I loved. Close enough to know exactly how he liked his tea. He never asked me to cook — but I still didn’t. Not even once. Not out of spite, but on purpose. I needed to draw a line: I love you, but I won’t play the role the world wrote for me.

Because for me, kitchens carry weight. They carry memories — not all of them mine. They echo with generations of women who were praised for feeding everyone but themselves. Who gave love through meals, while their own hunger — emotional and otherwise — went unnoticed.

I think about my mother often. I wonder if she ever wanted to say, “Not today.” If she ever dreamed of someone else handling dinner, even once. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t have the words, or maybe no one gave her the space to say them out loud.

But here’s what I know: she cooked even when she was breaking. And they called it love.

I want something different. A love that doesn’t need exhaustion to feel real. Where I cook because I want to, not because I feel I have to. Where food is joy, not obligation. Where the kitchen feels like freedom, not a test.

Still, unlearning is hard. Sometimes when I’m cooking, I catch myself wondering, Is this love, or conditioning? Am I doing this for me… or for him? And that tug-of-war? That’s its own kind of tired.

I’ve cooked for male friends without thinking twice. No pressure. No hidden meaning. Just laughter and shared food. But the moment romance is involved, something shifts. Suddenly, a simple meal becomes a statement. A performance. A promise.

And I don’t want to perform. I don’t want my value tied to what I serve on a plate.

What I do want? To cook barefoot, music playing, maybe a little wine in hand, stirring something delicious — just because it feels good. Maybe I’ll share it. Maybe I won’t. But I’ll do it because I want to. Because it brings me joy. Not because it earns me a seat at someone’s table.

Maybe one day, I’ll cook for someone I love, and it won’t feel heavy. Maybe I’ll serve soup and it won’t taste like sacrifice. Maybe food will just be food.

But until that day comes?

I’m okay saying no.

There are so many ways to show love — with words, with presence, with laughter, with soft silences and shared playlists… and yes, sometimes with takeout.

Today, I choose those.

Today, I choose me.