The Food Writer Who Couldn't Eat
- Beth Rush
- 3 minutes ago
- 5 min read
ADHD, Autism, and a Career Built on Contradictions
I once spent three hours describing a tasting menu built around fermented citrus and smoked seafood while secretly feeling nauseous and craving plain buttered toast. That contradiction defined both my career and my life. I was living with undiagnosed conditions that affected everything, even if I did not yet have the language to understand them.
For years, I had built my reputation as a food writer. I reviewed restaurants and wrote detailed critiques of tasting menus that cost more than some people's rent. On paper, it was the career I had always wanted. In practice, it often felt like torture.
I regularly had to attend loud restaurant openings and industry events, smiling through clashing scents, overlapping conversations, and the sensory chaos that left me physically ill. My husband would ask why I kept punishing myself when I'd come home unable to eat for three days after each "exposure."
At 33, after being diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and autism spectrum diagnosis, I finally understood why my public life and private reality had always felt so painfully disconnected. I wrote glowing reviews of bustling restaurants while keeping a rotation of "safe foods" at home—plain pasta, white rice, buttered toast. I smiled through networking events while planning my escape route. I built a career celebrating culinary complexity while my own relationship with food was unravelling.
When the Contradictions Finally Made Sense
On paper, it sounded glamorous, and sometimes it was. I loved the storytelling side of food writing—tracing how recipes travelled across generations, interviewing chefs about the dishes that shaped their childhoods. Behind every plate was a narrative about identity, belonging, and love. That's what I wanted to capture.
However, at home, I avoided spices and complex meals, preferring "safe" choices like plain pasta, toast and rice with steamed vegetables. I wrote about beautiful food while my relationships were filled with conflict, and I was constantly running myself ragged trying to please everyone.
I felt angry that it took 33 years to get answers, and heartbroken thinking about all the times I had blamed myself for not trying hard enough. But underneath the anger was something else: clarity. Finally, the contradictions made sense, even if they were threatening my career and marriage.
How I’d Been Setting Myself Up for Disaster
At the time, I didn’t understand that sensory processing issues or being neurodivergent could shape someone’s relationship with food, people and places so deeply. I constantly struggled with gastrointestinal issues that ranged from constipation to diarrhoea and intense abdominal pain that left me depressed and disgusted with food for days.
I didn't realise that my low appetite was a sign of a struggling nervous system. My therapist suggested I get tested for ADHD, and the diagnosis came with a menu of comorbidities: ADHD, autism, bipolar disorder, and Hashimoto's disease.
Because I had been neglecting hydration and proper nourishment, I had developed ulcers and digestive issues. I'd fixate on research for hours on end and write excessive notes to counter forgetfulness. I had timers on my phone and watch, yet I still frequently arrived late.
After some research, I began to learn what, when, and how often I could eat to balance my moods, energy levels and health. I had to switch from caffeine and energy bars to whole foods and multiple glasses of water per day so I could start hydrating my brain and nourishing my gut to rebalance serotonin production and improve my depression.
Not understanding that I was an adult with ADHD trying to balance autism, I didn’t know how to cope. Once the initial shock passed, I finally settled into researching and taking action, and I began making health-focused choices.
Learning to Work With My Brain, Not Against It
I now understand that ADHD doesn’t mean you can’t focus, or that you’re constantly moody. For me, it affects my ability to regulate my attention and emotions intentionally. At times, it felt like what my therapist described as a “high-functioning” autistic person and a very confused adult with ADHD symptoms rolled into one.
Treatment often felt like rolling dice. Medications that helped my autistic mind focus could heighten my ADHD symptoms. It took trial and error, but we eventually found a combination that works.
For me, the answer was never simply discipline or more alarm clocks. Instead, I built routines around the way my brain actually works. Now, I know that late-night commitments involving tasting menus at Michelin-starred restaurants are not always aligned with how my body or mind works.
I do my deep work in the mornings when my focus is strongest. Emails and administrative tasks happen later in the day. While I still use timers, I am more thoughtful about how and when I use them. My notes are arranged on colored pin boards, which gives me the semblance of normalcy and helps me feel less ashamed of my clutter habit.
Movement has become essential—I jog around the neighbourhood or rollerblade in the park. On rainy days, I dance in the kitchen with my kids. When sensory overwhelm kicks in, I ask them to turn down their games instead of shouting.
Learning about how ADHD shows up in my life and how it interacts with other parts of my neurodivergence has helped me rebalance and reclaim some measure of control. As a result, I can self-regulate more effectively. It has helped save my career and my marriage, and it has made me a better mom and more responsible partner.
Honesty With My Plate and Pen Saved My Life
Once I was diagnosed and began to let go of self-blame, I could finally make more honest choices about what I eat, how I live and what I write about. I’ve realised how long I had been blaming myself, and being able to finally forgive myself has been the best part of my diagnosis.
For years, I’ve tried to be someone I was not. Accepting my ADHD and autism has meant choosing gentle structures and habits that help me heal. Once I made peace with my nervous system, I could begin to listen to what it had been trying to tell me all along.
The food writer who could not eat no longer exists—not because I have fixed myself, but because I have stopped performing. I still write about food, but now I focus on research and storytelling I have always loved, without forcing myself into environments that make me sick.
My safe foods are no longer a secret shame; they're part of my story. The contradiction between my public role and private reality has dissolved, replaced by something far more sustainable: honesty. And it turns out, writing from a place of authenticity is far more fulfilling than any tasting menu ever was.
This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.