How fire taught me not to run away from who I am

Photograph by Basan Acharya

…life lessons from my kitchen

I didn't start cooking to become a chef. I didn't dream of Michelin stars, I wasn't seeking glory. I approached the flame because it was the only place where I could put my silence to work, like in a chapter I would call "play and games." I didn't know it at the time, but in the heat of the kitchen I would discover myself, confront myself, burn myself... and be reborn.

Fire doesn't lie

In the kitchen, fire is pure truth. You can't control it with lies. If it's too strong, it burns. If it's too weak, it fails. That's how life is too. I realized that in every flame there is a mirror: when I ran away from myself, the food could feel it. When I cooked with resentment, the taste was bitter. When I cooked with love, the dish smiled. Fire taught me not to run away. Not from the past, not from mistakes, not from fears. To stay there, in the intense heat, and transform everything into something nourishing.

Patience is not weakness—it is strength.

At first, I wanted everything to happen quickly, I wanted to be "the best" (What does that mean? I'll explain at the end). But cooking taught me a hard lesson: without patience, you burn yourself. Soups need time. Dough needs to rest. Meat needs to breathe. And so do I. I learned not to rush through life. To understand that every mistake is a step, not a failure. To accept that slow cooking reveals the deepest flavors—and the deepest parts of myself.

Cooking as an act of healing

I cooked in silence, I cooked with love. The kitchen was often the place where I healed my soul without realizing it. Every vegetable cut, every sauce prepared, every dish served was a form of therapy. When I lacked words, I had food. And sometimes, a dish can say what the mouth cannot: "I'm sorry." "Thank you." "I love you." "I'm still here."

Cooking taught me how to be human

Not a chef. Not a professional. Not a performer. Human. With tired hands, a soul full of longing, failures that tore my skin apart, and moments when a simple "Congratulations" from a colleague changed my day. I learned that perfection is not the goal. Presence is. Attention. The soul put into every gesture. That's what stays. That's what nourishes. Today, I no longer run away. I stay close to the fire. Not to master the flame, but to listen to it. And sometimes, in the silence between two orders, I hear something deeper than recipes: I hear who I am.

I return to the phrase "I wanted to be the best" …

“Be the best” – not for the world, but for myself. I said this so many times in my mind, like a mantra, like a whispered prayer: “I want to be the best.” At first, I thought it meant proving something. Showing the world that I am capable. Being recognized – or rather, that the food I create would be recognized. But the journey taught me that “being the best” doesn’t mean standing on the podium, but not betraying myself.

The competition that hurts

The world teaches us to compare. To look at other people's plates, other people's lives, other people's feeds. And when you are a woman, a chef, a leader, or simply a dreamer, there is double the pressure inside you: to be impeccable yet modest, creative yet efficient, strong yet pleasant. There came a point when I realized that I wasn't exhausted from work, but from expectations. From the voice inside me that said I wasn't good enough. The best—in what sense? I asked myself : The best for whom? For a superior? For a client? For a team? For a world that changes trends faster than I change the oil in my frying pan? The truth is that "the best" has changed. It no longer means perfection. It means sincerity. It means putting my true soul into what I do, not impressing. Growing every day, not winning every day.

Being the best... when it's hard

Being the best isn't seen in success. It's seen on the days when your hands shake, but you don't give up. When you face your fears. When you no longer seek approval, but inner peace. When you understand that even vulnerability is a form of strength.

The best for me
• The most present when I cook.
• The most empathetic when I lead a team.
• The most sincere with my dreams.
• The kindest when I make mistakes.
• The bravest when it's time to start over.

Because being the best doesn't mean not falling. It means always getting up with more clarity, more truth, and more light. And I will never be "the best" in everyone's eyes. There will always be someone faster, more visible, more praised. But if, at night, I can lay my head on my pillow knowing that I haven't betrayed who I am, that I cooked with my soul and chose with my heart — then, in that silence, I am... I am the best version of myself. And that's all that matters.