When Touch Becomes Too Close: My Quiet Food Habits

This piece begins with something that seems trivial at first, but has been increasingly noticeable to me lately: the way I relate to food.

I don’t remember exactly when this change began. What I do know is that as a child—at least as far back as my elementary school years—I never truly felt repulsed by sharing food or eating utensils. Drinking from someone else’s bottle, using the same glass, or taking a bite from a plate someone had already used felt completely normal. There was no need to hold back. No overthinking.

At some point, though, that response shifted. Slowly, without a single dramatic moment I could point to as the beginning. Now, drinking from someone else’s bottle feels uncomfortable. A glass, spoon, or plate that has already been used by someone else triggers an impulse to refuse, or at least to look for an alternative: switching utensils, rinsing them again, or quietly holding myself back.

This becomes even stronger when it involves food that has been directly touched—bitten, licked, or left behind in the same bowl. In situations like that, I usually can’t bring myself to eat it, unless I can discard the part that carries someone else’s trace (and even then, only with certain foods—not soups or anything liquid). This isn’t the result of a long, rational decision. It feels more like a subtle reflex that appears on its own.

What’s interesting is that this discomfort doesn’t stop at leftovers. It also shows up in how food is made. I often feel uneasy watching dough being kneaded, shaped, or arranged with bare hands, whether during cooking or serving. Sushi is probably the easiest example: culturally, it’s considered normal—even authentic—for it to be handled directly by the chef’s hands. But for me, that sight often creates an emotional distance from the food itself.

There’s even a detail that feels slightly embarrassing to admit: bare left hands touching food feel more disturbing to me than bare right hands. I usually laugh to myself when I notice this, because it isn’t a conscious belief. I’ve never sat down and decided, “left hands are dirtier.” And yet my body seems to reach that conclusion on its own. Maybe this has something to do with cultural norms I absorbed growing up, or maybe it’s just an unexamined habit that stayed with me.

Another consistent pattern: I can’t eat without a spoon. Whatever the meal is, there has to be a spoon. I rarely use a fork; a spoon feels sufficient and, somehow, safest. The only exceptions are snacks—and even then, only dry ones, or those I can tolerate even if they’re a bit oily. As soon as food is soupy or has a wet texture, the need for a spoon appears almost automatically.

I also tend to avoid foods that look extremely strange or that immediately make me think of something unpleasant. If it doesn’t look like food—or like something that’s normally eaten—it’s very difficult for me to eat it. This reaction is immediate and visceral, much like my other food boundaries.

When I think about it more closely, the spoon isn’t just an eating utensil. It acts as a kind of buffer, a mediator that creates a safe distance between my body and the food. With a spoon, there’s a clear boundary: my hands don’t need to touch the food directly, and the food enters my body through a path that feels more controlled. This isn’t about manners or trying to look neat. It’s more about a sense of safety that’s hard to explain briefly.

I don’t feel disgust toward people themselves. This feels important to emphasize, even to myself. I don’t see others as dirty or improper because of how they eat or cook. The discomfort is very specific: it attaches to objects, to physical contact, to bodily traces that feel “not mine.”

I also don’t feel that this significantly disrupts my life. I can still eat out, still sit at the same table with others, still adapt to social situations. Most of the time, I just make small adjustments to feel more comfortable: changing spoons, choosing certain dishes, or—when possible—not paying too much attention to how the food is prepared.

Maybe this is part of growing older. Maybe it’s part of strengthening personal boundaries—not only psychologically, but physically, as well. Or maybe it’s simply a combination of many things: experiences, culture, habits, and personal sensitivities that developed quietly, without ever being formally announced.

I’m not writing this to seek justification, let alone a psychological label. It’s more an attempt to understand myself honestly, without judgment. There are small things in life that change without our noticing, and they only start to feel strange when we pause and try to observe them.

And maybe, for me, a spoon is just a spoon. But maybe it’s also a marker of boundaries I’ve been slowly building, without ever consciously planning to do so.