I've been thinking about a moment from my own postpartum that I can't seem to shake. It was somewhere around week three. The baby was finally asleep. My husband was at work. I was sitting on the couch, still in what I'd been wearing for two days, and I realized I hadn't eaten since… I couldn't remember. Not because I wasn't hungry. I was starving. But every time I thought about food, I'd think about what I'd have to do to get food—the standing, the deciding, the preparing, the cleaning—and I'd just… sit back down. And then my mom walked in the door with a pot of soup. She didn't ask what I needed. She didn't offer to help with "anything." She just made something, drove it over, set it on the stove, and said, "I'll heat it when you're ready." I cried. Not because the soup was particularly special (though it was). But because someone had seen me. Someone had known what I needed before I could ask for it. Someone had done the thinking, the deciding, the preparing—and just handed me nourishment. That's when I understood, in my body, what I'd always known in my head: Food is love.

The language we use when words aren't enough

Humans have always used food to say the things words can't quite carry. We bring casseroles to grieving families. We celebrate birthdays with cake. We share meals on holidays not because we need the calories, but because sitting down to eat together means something. Food says: I care about you. Food says: You matter enough for me to spend time on this. Food says: I want to nourish you—to fill you up—to give you something that sustains you. And in postpartum, when a mother is often too tired to ask for help, too overwhelmed to articulate her needs, too depleted to do one more thing—food becomes a language that requires no translation. A warm meal says: I see you. A full freezer says: I've got you. Bone broth on the stove says: Rest. I'm handling this part.

Why postpartum makes this matter more

There's something particular about the fourth trimester that makes food-as-love land differently. Postpartum is a time of extraordinary vulnerability. Your body is healing. Your hormones are in flux. Your sleep is shattered. Your identity is shifting. You're responsible for keeping a tiny human alive—and that responsibility can feel all-consuming. In this season, receiving care isn't a luxury. It's a need. But asking for care? That can feel impossibly hard. Part of this is cultural. We've internalized the idea that mothers should be able to "do it all." That needing help is weakness. That "good moms" manage without complaint. Part of it is practical. When you're running on two hours of sleep, you don't have the bandwidth to figure out what kind of help you need, let alone communicate it to someone else. And part of it is simply human. When you're depleted, asking for anything feels like too much effort. This is why food is such a powerful form of support. You don't have to ask for food to receive it. You don't have to explain what you need. You don't have to feel guilty about burdening someone, because the giving has already happened. All you have to do is eat.

What co-regulation actually means (and why meals are part of it)

There's a concept in psychology called co-regulation—the way our nervous systems calm down in the presence of calm, attuned others. Babies do this instinctively. When they're distressed, they reach for a caregiver. The caregiver's steady breathing, warm body, calm voice helps the baby's nervous system settle. But here's the thing: mothers need co-regulation too. When you're in the thick of newborn life, your nervous system is often running on high alert. You're hypervigilant, tuned into every sound your baby makes, ready to respond at any moment. This is biologically appropriate—but it's also exhausting. Receiving care—real, tangible, embodied care—helps your nervous system settle. A warm meal does this. Not just because it provides nutrients (though it does). But because it signals safety. Someone is taking care of you. Something essential has been handled. You can relax, just a little. This is why food isn't just calories. It's regulation. It's reassurance. It's a reminder that you're not alone.

Traditions know what we've forgotten

In cultures around the world, postpartum has traditionally been treated as a community responsibility. In China, zuo yuezi ("sitting the month") involves 30-40 days of rest, during which the new mother is cared for by her family—fed warming foods, protected from strain, and not expected to do housework or leave the house. In India, the jaappa period involves similar rest, with an emphasis on specific warming foods, massage, and minimal visitors. In Mexico, la cuarentena (the quarantine) gives new mothers 40 days of rest, nourishing food, and support from family. In Korea, sanhujori focuses on keeping the mother warm, well-fed with seaweed soup (rich in minerals), and protected from cold and stress. These traditions aren't relics of a less enlightened time. They're wisdom, passed down through generations, that recognizes what modern culture often forgets: A mother who just gave birth needs to be mothered herself. And a central part of that mothering is food.

Why we've lost this (and what it costs us)

In modern Western culture, we've moved away from these traditions. Extended families live far apart. Maternity leave is short or nonexistent. The expectation is that mothers will "bounce back"—resume normal life as quickly as possible. And food has become something we do rather than something we receive. We meal prep. We order groceries. We figure out what's for dinner. We cook, we clean, we manage. Even in postpartum, when our bodies are screaming for rest, we often find ourselves standing at the stove because… who else is going to do it? This costs us. It costs us recovery time. It costs us energy. It costs us the experience of being held during one of the most vulnerable seasons of our lives. I'm not saying this to make anyone feel guilty. Modern life is what it is. But I do think there's something worth reclaiming here.

What it means to feed someone well

When I started making postpartum meals, I thought I was solving a logistics problem. New moms don't have time to cook. They need easy, nourishing food. Simple. But the more I did this work, the more I understood: it's not really about logistics. It's about care. Every meal I make is a small act of love for someone I've never met. It's an offering of nourishment—not just for her body, but for her spirit. "You don't have to figure this out." "Someone thought about what your body needs." "You are worth this care." That's what food-as-love communicates. And it's something every new mother deserves to feel.

How to receive care (even when it's hard)

If you're reading this as a new mother, or someone about to become one, I want to say this gently: You are allowed to receive care. This might feel uncomfortable. You might feel like you should be able to handle it. You might feel guilty asking for help, or accepting help when it's offered. But receiving care isn't weakness. It's wisdom. The mothers who fare best in postpartum aren't the ones who do it alone. They're the ones who let themselves be held—by partners, by family, by friends, by community. If someone offers to bring you a meal: say yes. If someone asks what you need: tell them food. If you're building a registry or a support plan: put nourishment at the center. And if no one is offering? It's okay to ask. It's okay to arrange it for yourself. Getting a freezer full of ready meals isn't indulgent—it's one of the most practical forms of self-care you can give yourself. For more on what your body actually needs during this time—and why nourishment matters so much—you might find it helpful to explore What Your Body Actually Needs Postpartum.

A small reframe

I want to offer you something to carry with you: Every time you eat a nourishing meal during postpartum, you are participating in love. Whether that meal came from a friend, a family member, a partner, or a delivery truck—it exists because someone cared enough to make it. And by eating it, you're honoring that care. You're letting yourself be nourished. You're saying: I am worth this. That's not small. In a culture that tells mothers to give endlessly without receiving, choosing to nourish yourself is a quiet revolution.

"There is no love sincerer than the love of food." — George Bernard Shaw (borrowed here because he understood what we all feel: that food, at its best, is love made tangible)

Why Food Is Love (Especially in the Fourth Trimester)