Whenever someone advocates for feeding children real, whole food, a familiar objection appears:

“That’s elitist. Poor families can’t afford that.”

It sounds compassionate. But look closer, and it reveals something uncomfortable: the assumption that low-income families — often disproportionately families of color — cannot prioritize health.

That assumption lowers expectations. It removes agency. And unintentionally, it reinforces inequity.

This is for the social workers who probably never knew how much their small decisions shaped a life.

March is Social Work Month, and every year I see posts recognizing the dedication, compassion, and resilience of social workers.

This year, I wanted to say thank you a little differently.

Not very long ago, cooking was not a hobby.

It was a basic human skill.

Every household knew how to take raw ingredients—grains, vegetables, beans, meat, herbs—and transform them into food that could sustain life. Cooking was daily maintenance for the body, much like tending a fire or mending clothing.

Somewhere along the way, we lost that art.

Parenting a child with disabilities means stepping into a world most people don't fully understand — one filled with medical appointments, unanswered questions, and moments of profound isolation. But it also means discovering a strength you never knew you had. This is my story of navigating two children's complex diagnoses, receiving my own, and finding the community that changed everything.

At some point, vegetables became controversial. Not medically controversial or scientifically controversial — culturally controversial. For millions of children, vegetables are now treated like something to negotiate, resist, or endure.

I saw it in miniature the other day.

It wasn’t even a bowl of greens. It was a few microgreens on a white bread sandwich. I was going slow.

He looked at it like I had betrayed him.

This was not a toddler.

This was a ten-year-old.

“I’m going to have to eat vegetables for the rest of my life?!”

Horrified. Dramatic. Entirely typical.

And revealing.

Because this wasn’t really about a child. It was about cultural training.

My aunt recently gave me a small, worn book printed in 1915. It is called The Runner’s Bible — a pocket collection of scripture “for people on the go.” She received it from her mother. Now it sits in my hands.

In this season of navigating cancer, I have started a quiet ritual. Each morning, I flip through and let a verse find me. It steadies my mind before the day accelerates. It connects me to her — and to the women before her — who endured what they were handed and tended what was theirs to tend.