Three More Bites of Broccoli
And Then You Can Be Done
“Three more bites, and you can be done.”
Yeah, no. I’ll just sit here.
Just three more bites.
I’m four years old, sitting at an empty kitchen table in Seattle, Washington, while my mom’s second husband, Brad, the mailman, insists that I finish my vegetables.
Gross.
If I’d start to fall asleep, he would thump me on the back of the head.
“You’re not leaving this table until you take three more bites.”
So apparently, broccoli is good for you. Vitamins and all that jazz. Tell that to my gag reflex.
I’m not eating it. Even if I have to sit at this table until morning, sobbing, holding my bladder, exhausted, tears streaming down my face, licking the green stub and gagging to a stop, until the sun comes up. You can’t make me eat it.
And so it is with feelings.
I saw a thing on TikTok where a girl said that you’re stuck where you are in an unhappy place because you’re refusing to feel what this circumstance demands that you feel — and until you feel it (just three more bites), you’re gonna stay put.
