A Whole Foods Believer
I grew up a picky eater.
McDonald’s — that was comfort: the fries, the nuggets, the toys. I didn’t think much about health, food systems, or what organic even meant. Food was just food. I was ten.
Then came my stepdad. When he entered our lives, he brought with him a whole new vocabulary — one that sounded like a foreign language. Suddenly, our grocery trips weren’t to Walmart; they were to Whole Foods Market. The shelves looked strange, full of labels that read organic, non-GMO, cold-pressed juice, and grass-fed beef. There was even “organic” and “gluten-free” water. Water. Gluten-free?
I’ll never forget that first trip. I stood in the cereal aisle, scanning for Froot Loops, Frosted Flakes, and Rice Krispies — only to be met with brands like Fruity O’s, Koala Krisp, and Ezekiel Bread. My stepdad laughed and said, “It tastes the same — and has fewer ingredients,” while dropping a carton of goat and hemp milk into the cart. I pouted. “Dad, I’m not drinking that with my cereal.” At the time, I didn’t realize he was planting something deeper than a dietary change; he was planting awareness. Still, I resisted. Organic food felt expensive and unnecessary. I didn’t see the privilege of even having a choice in what I ate.
Fast food was my comfort. Whole Foods was a chore. What I didn’t know then was that organic wasn’t just a marketing word; it was a movement. It meant food grown without synthetic pesticides, fertilizers, or GMOs; farmers choosing to work with nature, not against it. It meant caring for the soil, the pollinators, and the people behind our food. And yes, it often meant higher prices — not because it was “fancy,” but because clean food costs more in a system designed to reward the opposite.
Fast forward a few years. By fourteen, I was navigating the aisles myself — this time for essential oils. My parents had started an organic skincare company, which meant our kitchen was filled with jars of coconut oil, shea butter, and tiny bottles of lavender and tea tree. I learned to mix body butter, infuse herbs, and melt beeswax we sourced from a small Black-owned honey apiary. Without realizing it, I was immersing myself in a world of natural healing — through aroma, texture, and entrepreneurship.
So when a homeschool parent told my mom about a Black-owned urban farm in Chicago called Eden Place Nature Center, I was instantly intrigued. Two years later, I stood on that farm in the hood — learning about food apartheid and seeing firsthand what it means when communities live without grocery stores, fresh produce, or access to healthy choices. The same organic fruit I once refused now symbolized access, equity, and dignity. What once felt like inconvenience had become conviction.
Back then, I couldn’t see the bigger picture. But now, I realize every moment — even those reluctant trips down the organic aisles — was preparation. God was gently shifting my appetite — not just for food, but for truth, and for transparency in our food system. Because sometimes, before He gives you a mission, He’ll change your diet to teach you how to hunger for what truly nourishes.
