How Sobremesa Culture Helped My Relationship With Food

In Latinx families, sobremesas are liminal spaces that are hard to define. Growing up in a Colombian family, sobremesas were sacred. The table was always buzzing with people and conversation. It was where I learned that meals weren’t just about eating—they were about sharing, storytelling, and feeling rooted in something bigger. It was through these conversations, surrounded by the aroma of ajiaco, that I began to understand the richness of my Colombian heritage and how food and family are inextricably linked. To me, it is the hours I spent as a child sitting at my grandparents’ table, learning to play cards and word games long after the plates from lunch had been cleared and dessert had been passed around. It is where I heard my uncles talk about soccer and where my grandmother used to hold a needle over the palm of my hand to predict if my future children would be boys or girls. It was the haven for gossip at lunch hour in high school, where we could talk about our crushes or diss our teachers, and where comfortable conversation melded idly with that peaceful sensation that takes over your body after a good meal.

Sobremesas are a part of family meals, lunches with friends, or casual outings with coworkers that become afternoon-long ordeals and often strengthen relationships with those around you. It feels indulgent, a graceful way to stretch sharing a meal into something that goes far beyond. It is also a complex situation where no subject is off-limits, and discussions about politics, business, or religion often pepper the conversation.

But as much as Sobremesas were a haven, growing up in a house full of strong and opinionated women, they were also the first place where I heard comments about how bad someone had been for having seconds, how much someone had let themselves go, or how this was someone’s last dessert before starting their diet on Monday. That idle time after eating also became a time to feel uncomfortable about how your body felt. As a child, I was fed comments about how girls should eat less than boys, and those comments only grew sharper in high school. I felt invisible, and at the same time, I stood out too much. I was loud and opinionated and preferred books over talking about boys. High school was already hard enough without the added pressure of always having to look perfect, but at 17, I underwent a jaw surgery that put me on a liquid diet for six months, causing me to lose a considerable amount of weight. One day, while I was washing my hands in the girls’ bathroom, one of the most popular girls in my grade came up and said, ” you look great, te adelgazaste?” All it took was a single comment for me to realize that I could shift the perceptions that others had of me if I was skinnier: I was no longer invisible. That comment, and all the ones that followed praising my “weightloss”, sent me down a spiral of diets and strict workout regimens for the next ten years of my life.

My relationship with food and my body started shifting. I, who had always loved food, suddenly became terrified of it. I started avoiding certain foods like patacones and buñuelos. I then flat-out refused to eat the same meals my mom put on the table, opting instead for a rigid diet that became less colorful as the years dragged by. As a consequence, I started to lose the little moments of joy that came after sharing a meal. During the lowest moments of my eating disorder, I sat alone at the kitchen table, eating a single plate of food that I had cooked for myself and avoiding any interaction around mealtime or after it. Forget about sharing a slice of pizza with my friends or ice cream with my sisters. Never mind spending a minute after finishing a meal at the table. As soon as my plate was empty, I bolted, leaving an empty chair at the table and silence where my voice should have been.

My eating disorder peaked after I moved from Bogotá to New York for college, far from my mom’s table and our sobremesa conversations. The silence and the absences became deafening—not only around the dinner table, but as I fought to make myself thinner, I left a hole in my life where my personality, laughter, and opinions used to be. I was erasing myself from existence, suppressing the little girl who loved chocolate con queso to fit into the mold of thinness that has been popularized by Western and white beauty standards in order to be seen and valued. There was no room for Spanglish, ajiaco, or Shakira in my new life, and there certainly was no space for a body that threatened to get large. I felt disconnected from everything around me, trying to fit in with this new city and identity.

At first, I got approving comments for how good, disciplined, and flaca I looked, but then the praise turned into worried comments from almost strangers telling me I looked más flaca que una percha. It became painfully clear that I needed help. 

I was lucky enough to access treatment, and it helped me to recover physically, but mentally, there are still hurdles that I am working on overcoming daily. Even after treatment, sharing a meal was a challenge. At our table, I felt scrutinized by my parents, and there was always the possibility that one of my tíos could say the wrong thing at the wrong time, sending me down a spiral of intrusive thoughts.

These fears kept me at arm’s length from the table, but I craved the conversations and ached to relax into the chisme, the jokes, and the conversation over freshly brewed coffee. Having a Venezuelan boyfriend who has reintroduced foods like tequeños and plantains into my life has made me question the predominantly white label of healthy versus unhealthy foods, and it has reclaimed the foods that raised me. Slowly, eating has become less about the food rules I had placed around myself and more about the conversations at our table, my grandfather’s laughter, playing cards with my mom, and the taste of a freshly made arepa melting in my mouth.

Family and food are central components of Latinx identities. Sobremesas are an almost sacred ritual, Latino foods are as healthy and nourishing as any diet, and a love language that builds relationships is spoken at the table. In reclaiming them, as an act of revolution against body oppression, I am also reclaiming myself.