Food is a lot of people's therapy - when we say comfort food, we

Host: The city night was soaked in neon, the kind that bleeds color into puddles and makes loneliness look almost beautiful. The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets glistening like glass veins under the streetlights. Inside a small 24-hour diner, the air was thick with the smell of fried butter and old coffee — a place where time seemed to rest between the tick of the clock and the hum of a refrigerator.

At the corner booth, Jack sat, his hands around a chipped mug, eyes grey and tired. Jeeny sat opposite him, stirring her cup absentmindedly, her dark hair falling in loose strands, her expression half-soft, half-searching.

The neon sign outside flickered — Eat Here — as if begging the world to stay a little longer.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why they call it comfort food?”

Jack: “Because it’s cheap, greasy, and reminds you of when life didn’t hurt so much.”

Host: He said it with a smirk, but his eyes betrayed the truth — a quiet ache, tucked behind sarcasm like a wound under a bandage.

Jeeny: “Brett Hoebel said, ‘Food is a lot of people’s therapy. It releases dopamine and serotonin — the stuff that makes you feel good.’ He’s right. Sometimes a bowl of soup does more than any psychiatrist.”

Jack: “Yeah, but that’s just chemistry, Jeeny. It’s your brain tricking you with a chemical handshake. Sugar, fat, salt — all of it just pulls levers upstairs. It’s not therapy; it’s programming.”

Jeeny: “But therapy is about feeling better, isn’t it? If a cookie makes a person stop crying, even for a minute, that’s a kind of healing.”

Host: Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, sending a soft spray of water against the window. Inside, the light from the neon sign pulsed across Jeeny’s face — red, then blue, then white — like the rhythm of a heartbeat caught in glass.

Jack: “So what, we just drown our pain in fries and milkshakes? You call that healing? It’s more like numbing. Same way people use alcohol, or Netflix, or some new goddamn self-help app.”

Jeeny: “Maybe numbing is part of healing. You can’t fix a wound while you’re screaming in pain. Sometimes you need something soft to hold onto first — a taste, a texture, a memory that tells you you’re still human.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but temporary. You eat, you feel good, then you crash. You end up chasing the same fleeting comfort again. That’s not therapy; that’s dependence.”

Jeeny: “You talk like comfort is a crime.”

Jack: “It’s not a crime — it’s a trap. The same dopamine that makes you feel good is what keeps you hooked. That’s why people can’t stop eating when they’re miserable. Food becomes a substitute for connection, for love, for everything they’ve lost.”

Host: The waitress, a tired woman with kind eyes, set down a plate of pancakes between them. The syrup glistened under the light, slow and golden, like time itself had paused mid-pour.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s afraid to feel good.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just someone who knows that feeling good isn’t the same as being okay.”

Host: The steam from the pancakes rose, carrying the scent of vanilla and warm dough. Jeeny’s hand lingered over the plate, her fingers trembling just slightly before she picked up a fork.

Jeeny: “When I was thirteen, my mom worked late every night. I used to make instant mac and cheese just to have something warm to hold. I didn’t eat it because I was hungry; I ate it because it made the loneliness quiet down.”

Jack: “Yeah, and now? You still eat your way out of silence?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. And I don’t feel ashamed of it. We all find ways to remind ourselves we’re alive. For some, it’s prayer. For others, it’s pain. For me, it’s a bowl of noodles at midnight.”

Jack: “That’s sad, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. What’s sad is pretending we’re above the small things that keep us from breaking.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — soft but unshakable, like the echo of truth in an empty room. Jack looked down at his coffee, his reflection rippling across the surface like a man drowning in thought.

Jack: “You know, there’s a study — scientists found that comfort food doesn’t actually fix your mood any faster than eating nothing at all. It’s all placebo. Just the idea of comfort, not the substance.”

Jeeny: “Placebo or not, if it helps, isn’t that enough? The mind believes, and the body follows. That’s not fake — that’s faith.”

Jack: “Faith in mashed potatoes?”

Jeeny: “Faith in the human capacity to find warmth wherever it can. You ever notice how hospitals serve soup? Not because it heals the body, but because it soothes the soul.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly. Somewhere, a dishwasher clattered, and a radio hummed a low, nostalgic melody — something from another decade, filled with longing and dust.

Jack: “You think we should heal ourselves with nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “I think we should stop punishing ourselves for needing it. When you were a kid, didn’t your dad make you pancakes on Sunday?”

Jack: “Yeah. Burned them every time.”

Jeeny: “And you still think about them.”

Jack: “Because they meant he was home.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what comfort food does. It’s not about calories or dopamine — it’s about presence. About remembering you were loved once.”

Host: Jack’s breathing slowed. His hand rested against the table, his fingers tracing the chipped wood, as if following some invisible pattern of memory.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not the food that comforts us — it’s the people we used to eat it with.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Brett meant. When he said food releases serotonin, he wasn’t just talking about the brain. He meant the heart has its own chemistry, too.”

Jack: “So comfort food is therapy because it’s nostalgia disguised as flavor?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s therapy because it’s forgiveness. Every time we eat something that reminds us of home, we forgive a part of ourselves for falling apart.”

Host: The rain began again, but softer this time — a delicate whisper against the windowpane. The neon sign flickered one last time before steadying, casting a pale, pink glow across their faces.

Jeeny reached for her pancake, tore off a piece, and placed it on Jack’s plate.

Jeeny: “Here. Try forgiveness.”

Host: Jack hesitated, then took a bite. The taste was simple — sweet, warm, ordinary. But in that ordinary, something shifted. A faint smile broke across his face, small but real.

Jack: “It’s not bad.”

Jeeny: “It’s not meant to be bad. It’s meant to remind you that it’s okay to want to feel good sometimes.”

Host: Outside, the rain washed the city’s dirt into the gutters, leaving behind reflections of light that trembled like dreams too fragile to wake. Inside the diner, two people shared pancakes and silence, their hearts finding the kind of therapy that no science could fully explain.

Because sometimes, the most human kind of healing comes not from answers, but from warmth — one bite, one moment, one remembered taste at a time.