Resisting the Childhood Trauma of Food Insecurity

• Modern wellness culture often celebrates fasting — praising it as both an art and a science. I have always admired Muslims for their discipline during Eid al-Fitr, fasting from sunrise to sunset. The idea that one can consciously choose not to eat for six, twelve, or even twenty-four hours fascinates me. It’s a testament to the power of the mind over bodily desire.

Yet for those of us who grew up in the shadow of hunger, fasting triggers a deep, unspoken fear — a reminder of what it means to live with food insecurity. It is not just about missing a meal; it’s about confronting the old trauma of not knowing when, or if, the next one will come.

There’s a silent battle within. We work hard to secure our food supply, sometimes overcompensating for the hunger of our youth. We fill our pantries, fridges, and freezers — even our stomachs — with starches that give us the illusion of security. The weight around our waists becomes a quiet badge of survival. We tell ourselves, I’ll deal with it at the gym.

But as I’ve learned, healing requires more than physical effort. It takes emotional courage to acknowledge that abundance doesn’t always bring peace. Our challenge is to shift from eating for survival to eating for nourishment — to recognize that health is not about how much we eat, but how well we nourish both body and soul.

As I age, I notice my body teaching me lessons I once resisted. Foods I cherished as a boy in Bujumbura — like cassava ugali, that thick paste we ate with vegetables or meat — now sit heavy on my stomach. What once gave comfort now demands moderation. It’s as if my body is reminding me: progress requires change.

I’ve seen that change reflected in Rwanda, too. When I first returned years ago, restaurants had no terraces. People were too poor, too hungry, to watch others eat. Curtains were drawn to hide full plates from empty stomachs. But today, Kigali’s streets tell a different story. The economy has grown. The middle class is rising. Cafés and open-air restaurants now line the car-free zones of Nyamirambo. People gather, not in shame, but in community — living proof of how far the nation has come.

Rwandans are learning, as I have, that prosperity brings its own discipline. You can’t indulge in rich food and expect to stay healthy. You can’t feast every day and still feel light on your feet. Progress requires adaptation.

The beauty of aging gracefully lies in this wisdom — the ability to unlearn habits born of survival and embrace those that nurture wellbeing. Whether as individuals or nations, our growth depends on our willingness to adapt, to balance abundance with restraint, and to find peace in the simple act of being — even when the stomach is empty.