I have been mulling over how I deny myself small pleasures to prove to myself that I have the discipline do hard things for sustained periods of time. But it seems I have taken restraint for the purpose of self-improvement to an extreme and completely thwarted facets of my identity in the process.

There was a period of my life when I poured all of my energy into competitive engineering feats and…not much else. But I had, at the same time, enrolled in several History and Literature courses, which required that I dedicate a significant amount of time to reading and memorizing long texts. But I had little interest in the reading material and, after long days of lectures and frenzied engineering, would often collapse on my bed instead of pushing myself to stay awake and complete my coursework. And much to no one's surprise, I was, in the end, humbled by the exams for these courses.

As trivial as this may seem to most, it was a devastating set of consequences for me at the time. My sense of self was (or should I say, "is") constructed around my aptitude and academic "exceptionalism", and I was crushed by the aftermath of my disregulation and generally disorganized approach to school.

After wallowing in self-pity and frustration for a bit, I resolved to dedicating every waking moment to my self-betterment. I became obsessed with organization and throughput and became militant in my academic and professional life. This obsession allowed me to achieve exactly what I wanted—the diploma, the job, and the lifestyle.

But my neuroticism has grown ceaseless over the years, and it has had cascading effects across many spheres of my life, including, most recently, on my romantic life. It has made it far too easy for me to strip myself of personality and become something of a machine, focused narrowly on accomplishing my goals. Especially when I feel that something has gone awry.

I had a tough conversation recently, where I realized that I tend to flatten myself into a very 2-dimensional personality in most difficult situations. I am quick to quash my essence as soon I believe I have entered an unsafe environment—be it a romantic situation where I'm stuck behind a man's emotional wall, walking on eggshells, looking for safe topics; or perhaps a very male-dominated workplace, where it often feels impossible for a woman to express feminity and interests in much besides work if she would like to be taken seriously.

But productivity and personal growth do not necessarily have to be at odds with authenticity and pleasure-seeking, do they?

I hope not.

So I'm starting a series called "In Relief" to trace this frame of mind and my attempts, both big and small, at carving myself back into dimension to overcome it.

This is the first post in that series. It's a Beli review from a few weeks ago.

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I grew to pride myself in my ability to practice extreme amounts of restraint and discipline in recent years, and, like with many of the habits I fixate on, I did not practice this in moderation and allowed it to bleed into most spheres of my life. This included my dining habits.

I used to frequently deny myself small pleasures like baked goods, coffees, and restaurant outings, prioritizing my outrageous savings goals every time I felt the urge to indulge in an "unnecessary spend". Over time, I became quite the expert at pointing to sidewalk sandwich boards with enticing menu items, saying "that sounds so good!", and continuing onward, the thought of actually purchasing the food never crossing my mind.

I've since met my original savings goals and grown as a person (ever so slightly). And I am now knee-deep in the obligatory quarter-life crisis that seems to hit every over-achieving asshole 2 years post-grad. It is a phase that I can only describe as both invigorating and soul-crushing. I am finding myself growing bolder and more inquisitive with every passing day. I'm registering for lessons in extreme sports I only learned about mere hours before, I'm saying yes to impromptu cross-country and international trips, and I'm also finally allowing myself to get a plate of jerk chicken when I want some damn jerk chicken.

My mother and I happened to park right by this small Caribbean joint in the city while meeting with my sister earlier today, and I kept staring at the restaurant, marveling at the menu items painted on the black sandwich board by its front door: "Oxtail, curried chicken, plantains, jerk chicken, rice and peas, stew beef…That sounds so good"

"Go get it!" My mother said.

Now, I would previously have come up with an excuse to avoid making the purchase. But as I have just explained, I've entered a very Bourdainian time of my life. So I wasted no time—I sprung out of my seat and walked into the eatery with a smile plastered to my face.

Everything inside just felt right. It was a tiny restaurant with harsh, white lighting and no seating inside. The walls were painted a buttery yellow with touches of coral and green throughout. There were two fridges that were packed with small slices of rum cake and an assortment of juices. The counter at the front was small and adjacent to a wire frame shelf that was lined with several brands of plantain chips. It felt like I had wandered into a small, road-side store in south India.

The woman who took my order was lively and warm and had a thick Jamaican accent that made every exchange feel like a hug. She was operating on island time; she moved slowly, joking with me as she poured the rice, chicken, cabbage, and sauce into my takeout container. And she paused, several times, to take bites of a cinnamon apple cake she had just baked. The container was wrapped in a plastic bag, which she sealed with a small pink sticker: "Here ya go babygirl", she said, handing me the bag. I don't think I could have smiled any wider.

I skipped back into my car, beaming.

The food was, to no one's surprise, incredible. The chicken was sweet and a bit spicy. The meat was practically falling off the bone. The sauce and rice complemented each other beautifully, and the simplicity of the cabbage balanced out the otherwise heavy dish. My parents loved it too.

I will be back to try more menu items. Or perhaps to get this jerk chicken again but on mac and cheese next time…