Two Pieces a Day: Healing What We Were Taught About Enough
When I was a kid, Halloween came with strict rules.
We were allowed two pieces of candy a day.
That was it.
The problem was, two pieces never felt like enough. So I’d sneak extra.
Quietly. Quickly.
Wrappers buried deep in the garbage or shoved into pockets I’d empty later in private.
Looking back, I’m not sure how much candy would have felt like “enough.”
Because I never had the space to find out.
I only knew that wanting more felt wrong - greedy, out of control, shameful.
And those feelings didn’t magically disappear with adulthood.
Even years into healing my relationship with food, I still sometimes feel that flicker - that instinct to hide what I’m eating, or eat it fast, before anyone sees.
Sneaking food isn’t about willpower. It’s about protection.
It’s what happens when we grow up learning that liking certain foods makes us bad or weak.
When my son was little, I wanted something different for him.
Each year after Halloween, we’d sit down with his haul and ask,
“How much do you think you need to feel satisfied tonight?”
Whatever number he said, we went with it - even if it made my insides shake a little.
(There were definitely nights I had to remind my face to stay neutral.)
He’d pick his candy and sit - sometimes at the table, sometimes on the floor - and eat without rushing.
No time limits, no distractions if we could help it, just permission to enjoy and notice:
What did he like?
How did it feel in his belly?
Was he getting full?
Sometimes he got bored and put it away.
Other times he ate every piece and felt fine.
And a few times he ended up with a tummy ache.
We did this night after night until his stash was gone. And through all of it, he learned.
He learned what satisfaction felt like.
He learned what “too much” felt like - without judgment or shame.
He learned that candy wasn’t something to sneak, hide, or earn.
And me?
I learned right alongside him.
It’s one thing to heal privately.
It’s another to model trust and autonomy for your kid when you’re still trying to build it for yourself.
There were moments I wanted to grab the bag back, to say “that’s enough,” to manage the discomfort sitting in my chest.
But each time I stayed quiet, I watched him build a sense of trust that I’m still working on for myself.
Now as a teenager, he still does it his way.
He eats candy without urgency or guilt. Sometimes he even puts it away mid-snack because he’s had enough - though, admittedly, he’s usually watching football highlights while doing it.
It’s scary to give your kid what you didn’t have.
To let them discover enoughness while you’re still trying to believe you’re allowed to.
But that’s the work.
It’s tender, imperfect, ongoing work - for both of us.
If the idea of letting go of food rules (for yourself or your kids) brings up a knot in your stomach, you’re not alone.
And you don’t have to untangle it alone either.
Here’s where that conversation can start.
With you through the mess and the magic,
