Lunchbox Realisations: The Quiet Luxury of Eating with Intention

Today, I did something I’ve never done before—I packed myself lunch.

Not because I had to. Not because someone reminded me. But because I had the time, the headspace, and maybe for the first time in a long while… the desire.

Spicy Korean noodles. Some curd, with boondi packed separately so it’d stay crisp. A handful of grapes. A bottle of cold water, because yes, that matters too. Nothing fancy. But it felt… deliberate.

I remember pausing and thinking, “This doesn’t look like much. What if I’m still hungry?” The old version of me—the one constantly juggling responsibilities, battling burnout, surviving long shifts—would’ve packed way more or skipped lunch altogether because it’s so much easier. But I also remembered those reels, you know? The ones where people pack tiny portions of different foods in pretty bento boxes. It always looked excessive and unnecessary to me, but suddenly, it made sense. Smaller amounts. Variety. Texture. Joy.

And it was enough. I felt full. But more than that, I felt satisfied. I tasted every part of my lunch. I noticed how the spice from the noodles played with the coolness of the curd. I noticed the pop of the grapes, their perfect crispness. I drank my cold water like it was something to be enjoyed, not chugged between patients or meetings.

It sounds small. But it felt like something big.

Because for the longest time, food was just a checkbox. Something to be squeezed into the cracks of a chaotic day. I didn’t stop to think about what I ate—just whether I had eaten or not. Survival mode doesn’t really allow for indulgence.

And today… for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t in survival mode.

That’s when the thought crept in: this—this ordinary, quiet moment—is luxury. Not in the expensive, curated Instagram way. But in the deeper, more human sense of having the freedom and clarity to choose what you want, to care for yourself gently, to pause.

Today, I ate like someone who wasn’t in crisis. And that, in this world, feels like the ultimate indulgence.

I don’t know if I’ll always have the time or energy to pack myself a neat little lunchbox with boondi in a separate bowl. Life will probably get loud again. But I do know what it felt like to sit with myself, to eat slowly, to care just a little extra.

And now that I’ve tasted that kind of peace—I think I’ll try to make room for it again.

Even if it’s just grapes in a quiet corner.