For months after we first started working with her, she’d show up not exactly hungry, but not exactly nourished either.
An hour’s worth of rehabilitation exercise on top of just a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, consumed as she hurried to get here on time, wasn’t working for her. She had diabetes, so inevitably hypoglycemia hit her midway through each session. Shaking, sweating, she’d rush to drink some juice to tide her over.
Ever since her stroke, she’d been frustrated by her reliance, once again, on a domineering parent whose influence she’d managed to evade since reaching adulthood. Now, it was hard for her to talk about food without feeling infantilized.
But after weeks of patient listening, careful coaching, and, eventually, a referral to nutritional services, her breakfasts grew more substantial over time. So did her work in the gym, until she no longer needed her father to help her get dressed.
Nourishment all around.