Restrictive language around food can do more harm than good

When writing my forthcoming book, SLIP: Life in the Middle of Eating Disorder Recovery, I used a lot of “gray language” — words that allow for nuance, exploration, and different interpretations. It proved especially helpful when writing about what it’s like to live in between the black and white extremes of “acute sickness” and “full recovery,” in what I’ve come to call The Middle Place.

By exploring the nuances of recovery, I’ve expanded my language for describing it. And my hope is that the book will help others do the same.

This expansion of language — of understanding — is important in all kinds of writing. And it offers up a helpful antidote to black and white language, which tends to be restrictive and reflective of the all-or-nothing mentality that often accompanies eating disorders.

I thought about this a lot over the past month while writing my syllabi for the four courses I’m teaching at the University of Texas at Austin this semester.

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Having spent most of my career at the intersection of journalism and education, I’ve come across many syllabi from professors around the country. When reading them, I inevitably encounter black and white, rule-oriented language that one would expect to see: “Plagiarism is prohibited,” for instance, or “Fabrication will not be tolerated.” In cases like this, black and white language serves an important purpose by establishing expectations around academic integrity. But I’ve also stumbled upon black and white language around food: “No food allowed” or “Food is prohibited in the classroom.”

Reading these rules brings me back to my own college days, when I had professors who placed similar restrictions on food. As a college student who was in eating disorder recovery and whose classes sometimes coincided with meal times, I found the “no food” rule challenging. It went against what I had learned in treatment: eat when you’re hungry, and don’t skip any meals or snacks. Being told I couldn’t eat in class validated my own restrictive tendencies. My takeaway was as black and white as the rules themselves: My professor says I can’t eat, so now I have an excuse not to when I’m in class. When I ended up relapsing in college, I found that language rooted in restriction affected me even more negatively.

All these years later, I’m mindful of the fact that the median age of eating disorder onset in the United States coincides with the typical age of college enrollment. Eating disorders, which affect an estimated 29 million Americans, are so often misunderstood and shrouded in secrecy. As a woman in recovery, I have a strong desire to deepen people’s understanding of these devastating disorders and the factors that can contribute to — and exacerbate — them.

And as a professor, I try to keep an open mind by considering the various reasons why some educators disallow food in the classroom. They may teach in a science lab that needs to be sterile, for instance, or a computer lab with expensive equipment. They may be struggling with their own food-related triggers, or they may be influenced by diet culture without even realizing it. Maybe their school has a bug or rodent problem. Maybe they want to be sensitive to students who have allergies, or to those who are easily distracted by loud noises (like the crinkling of food packages). These are all important considerations. And yet, it’s always worth asking: Are there workarounds? Is there grayer language that would acknowledge students’ various needs and engage them in a conversation about the topic?

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For my journalism/writing classes this semester, I steered clear of restrictive language around food and added a short section to my syllabi stating: “Food is allowed and welcome in the classroom. If you have a serious allergy that would require certain foods to not be in the classroom, please let me know.” The first sentence is inviting, and the second sentence welcomes discussion. During the first day of classes, I explained my approach and gave my 170+ students the opportunity to ask questions and/or share concerns (of which there were none). I also asked them to fill out a “getting to know you” survey, which included a question about food allergies.

When writing and talking about food, I didn’t fall into the trap of telling my students they could only eat “healthy” food in the classroom. As the mother of young children, I’ve learned that this is common verbiage in school settings, and I feel strongly about refraining from it. Who am I to judge what other people should and shouldn’t eat? That’s not my place as a professor, nor is it my place to deem what is “healthy” or “unhealthy.” Students shouldn’t ever have to worry about whether their food is healthy enough for class, and they shouldn’t have to wrestle with restrictive language.

The language we use as educators, as writers, matters. Some of our messaging needs to be black and white, but other messages would benefit from grayer language. This is especially true when considering the impact that our words can have students, particularly those struggling with mental health issues like eating disorders.

The more we can clarify our messaging and allow room for nuance, the more inclusive and the less restrictive our writing will be.

Readers, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Are there times when you’ve adopted “gray language” — with regard to food or any other topic? If so, how did it work out?