When a parent asks other parents how to get their child to eat more vegetables or more solids, there’s a wave of advice flooding in.
- ‘Relax, she’ll grow out of it.’
- ‘Just let it go and wait until it passes, it’s just another phase.’
- ‘Make Pinterest-proof monsters out of fruit.’
- ‘Tell how broccoli are little trees, and decorate the plate like a forest.’
- ‘Get her to eat with fun hacks.’
- ‘Just ask for one no-thank-you bite, then let go.’
- ‘Give it up, but also ‘no dessert if he does not eat.’
- ‘Follow this Instagram account to help your picky kid eat veggies.’
The list of advice to get your child to eat is long. Very long. And it’s exhausting. Many parents have tried it all, ticking every box, following every suggestion, putting in the effort. And their child still refuses. So they start wondering what they’re doing wrong, what’s wrong with their child, or a combination of both.
You know what? Underneath all those refusals, something important gets missed. All the strategies mentioned focus on changing a child’s eating behavior. After all, there’s something deeply reassuring about seeing your child eat ‘well’, whatever that means. I love it when my boys are happily eating, especially the sound of their munching. It gives me a deep sense of satisfaction. It feels like things are on track. It feels like I did something right. It feels like they are alright. And when they don’t eat ‘well’ – again, however we define that – my lack of reassurance can easily morph into a worry cycle.
Looking back, I can see what I couldn’t see then. Six years ago, when my oldest boy started eating solids, I didn’t realize there was a lens shaping my worry – the cultural story about what eating ‘should’ look like. And once I started noticing it, I couldn’t unsee it. I began to see how this lens pulls many of us toward two unhelpful extremes. Either we push harder, or we step back in frustration because nothing seems to work. We end up overdoing or under-doing things. Both extremes are ways of coping with the friction between our long-term wishes and the daily reality at the table.
Which team are you in?
The Pushing Harder team is where hustle culture enters family feeding. We believe that if we just put in enough effort, creativity, or consistency, we can engineer an eating pattern. ‘We need to step up our game’, some parents tell me. Yet, we can’t copy-paste performance logic to our human biology. Appetite, autonomy, safety, sensory processing, and acceptance of new foods – all these things can only bloom in supportive, safe, non-pressured conditions.
Believing that more effort leads to better eating goes directly against what feeding actually asks of us. After all, we can set the table for success, but we don’t control the bites. And that can feel shaky. So we look for something we can do. For Team Pushing Harder, that often translates into doing more, not less.
Here’s the part that might feel a little uncomfortable for this team – we cannot force readiness. Eating and opening up for food are body-led and, ideally, also child-led processes. And when we try to override that process, we are pushing against our kids’ bodily autonomy. So even if we ‘win’- mind the quotes – your child can lose agency, connection, and trust. In the end, it’s not you who wins, it’s the spell of diet culture that told you this was a battle to begin with. My core question for this team is: how do you still do your job as a caregiver without slipping into control?
The other extreme shows up as what we can call Team Letting Go. But letting go can look very different. Sometimes we truly step back – and in doing so, we may also step away from our feeding role, the part where we bring predictability, consistency, and balance to the table. Sometimes it shows up as a hard line – ‘this is what’s for dinner’ – where connection can thin out. And sometimes letting go is more of a statement than a felt reality. On the surface we say we’re relaxed, but underneath we’re still scanning the plate, measuring bites, managing outcomes. It may look calm, yet the nervous system is still on high alert.
Whether it’s truly letting go or silently worrying underneath, things can start to feel like loose sand – as if there’s no real foundation, everyone is just doing their own thing. For kids, there can be a lack of structure and steady adult decision-making. ‘It’s just a phase, wait and see’ can also leave you guessing. I mean, what do you do while you wait? You let go, yes, but sometimes you let go a little too much, including your feeding role.
What if we practice informed patience?
My take is different. I’m not here to tell you to push harder. And I’m not here to tell you to simply let go. I’m here to help you understand what’s actually happening so you can practice informed patience – that sweet spot between unguided patience and over-controlling guidance. Patience is not sitting it out. It begins with clarity – knowing where you’re heading, knowing when to lead and when to lean back, expecting the bumps, and trusting the process along the way.
Think of eating like riding bikes together. It’s the same road, but not the same bike. The same family, but not the same body. The same genetics, yet different preferences. The same language, yet different needs. Our kids ride their bikes – their bodies, their appetite, their pace, their preferences. They do the pedaling. They use the brakes. They decide how fast or slow they go. We can’t ride it for them. But we’re not absent. We ride alongside them. We help choose the route so it’s safe enough. We slow down when needed. We’re there when they wobble. We’re the steady presence while they explore. Letting go would be pushing them downhill and hoping it works out. Taking over would be grabbing the handlebars.
Clarity is what makes care without control possible. Without understanding what’s driving your child’s eating behavior, it’s almost impossible to stay out of surface-level, reactive interventions – either overstepping or stepping back too far. Both reactions are simply ways of coping with the same uncertainty about what our child’s eating might mean in the long run.
There’s a middle space where you stay present without riding the bike in their place. That’s the space I’m interested in – between pushing and giving up. The space where you care deeply and intentionally, while still respecting your child’s bodily autonomy. With clarity, you’re not just reacting. You’re choosing your next step.
