The first pages.

Before we say a single word about food, I want to share the one thing this whole book stands on. It's the thing that stays true whether you read every page or close the book after reading this passage.

You have a race to run.

Not a race against the person next to you. Your own race. The specific life God made you for. The work He set aside with your name on it. The entire reason you were put on this earth.

The apostle Paul called it exactly that. Looking back over his life, he wrote, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." Depending on the translation you read, that word comes through as race or as course. Either way, the picture holds. A path with a starting line, a finish line, and a reason worth running toward. Paul lived that way, seeing life as something to run and finish well, and he said the same was true for everyone he wrote to. It’s true for you, too. This is the purpose underneath every Christian life. Not a quiet hope. A calling, with a finish line that matters.

And here's what I missed for most of my life: running your race in a body that's worn down can make every step harder.

I'm not talking about being thin or fast or strong enough for a magazine. I'm talking about caring for your body so you have more of yourself available for the life you've been given. More energy to use your gifts. More room to be present with the people you love. More strength for the things God is asking of you. And in the seasons when your strength is limited, He meets you there, too.

That's where food comes in. Not as the point, but as the support. The way you eat either gives your body what it needs to carry you, or it slowly takes that away. Caring for your health isn't vanity. It's one way of preparing for the life you've been given and the race you're here to run.

So that's the frame for everything ahead. The recipes, the science, the habits, and the prayers. All of it serves one thing: helping you run your race and finish it well.

This story is one leg of my own race, and it's where everything I'm about to share with you began.

My Vegan Journey

I grew up in Los Angeles, a city well known for its sun-soaked beaches, palm trees, green juice, and every new health fad you can imagine. On the surface, it looked like the perfect place to be healthy. But behind the doors of our small home, life told a different story. My parents stretched every dollar to keep food on the table. Organic produce and gluten-free anything? That was for people who didn't have to worry about rent. Our dinners came from cans and boxes, not for nutrition but for survival. The contrast between LA's glossy wellness culture and our struggle for basic nourishment left me wondering where I fit in the story of health.

Growing up, that question grew even more complicated. Both of my parents wrestled with addiction, and our family carried the weight of that struggle in ways I didn't have the language for back then. There were slammed doors, physical fights, and the quiet instability that settles into a child's body before they even understand what fear is. I learned to read a room before I could read a book. I learned to stay small, stay quiet, and stay out of the way. I learned about survival long before I learned about safety.

And the instability wasn't the only shadow I lived through. Part of my story includes sexual abuse. The men who abused me told me I was pretty, and I believed them when they said that was what mattered most. It taught me that my body was a form of currency before I even understood what that meant. It shaped how I saw myself, how I moved through the world, and what I thought I was worth. I didn't have words for what was taken from me, only the feeling that something was.

Somewhere in all that noise, I made a silent promise to myself: I was going to live differently. I was going to outrun the chaos. And because of the abuse I experienced, my child's mind told me to use the one thing I had that people wanted, my body. My body was my currency, my ticket out, the one thing I could control in a world that felt predatory, ever-changing, and unpredictable. So, I poured myself into becoming the kind of woman who looked healthy and whole, the kind you saw in magazines or on TV. The polished ones. The put-together ones. The ones whose lives looked nothing like mine.

I thought success and beauty could erase the parts of my story that felt too heavy to carry. I didn't understand yet that healing doesn't come from the outside in. And I didn't know that the version of whole I was chasing had nothing to do with who God created me to be.

By high school, my insecurities settled in deep. My skin broke out, my body was painfully thin, and even though the world praised thinness, I envied the curvier girls who looked strong and sure of themselves. I tried protein shakes, weight gain powders, even layering two pairs of jeans to look fuller. But no matter what I did, the feeling of not being enough stayed right where it was.

In my twenties and thirties, that ache of insecurity just changed shape. I poured myself into two things: career and appearance. I was determined to get ahead and chase the polished, camera-ready version of success I thought would finally make me secure. I punished myself with workouts, counted calories, and believed discipline made me worthy. From the outside, I looked like I had it together. Inside, I was unraveling.

Beneath all that striving, something quieter persisted. Since childhood, I'd carried a tenderness toward animals. I couldn't bear to see them suffer. I asked uncomfortable questions about death and dinner. I cried over injured strays or when I saw an animal being mistreated. That sensitivity never left me, even as I learned to ignore so much else about myself. So, when plant-based eating entered my adult life, it wasn't a foreign concept. It was a whisper from the girl I used to be, reminding me that some part of me still believed in gentleness, still refused cruelty, and still wanted to live according to what I valued.

But wanting and doing are different things. I'd commit to veganism for a few weeks, hoping this time would be different, then return to old patterns when life became difficult. I had the desire, but I didn't yet have the knowledge, support, or emotional foundation I needed. I was relying on willpower to carry me through wounds I hadn't addressed.

At forty-two, I had just given birth to my second daughter. I was carrying more weight than felt healthy for me, and I was tired in every possible way.

Looking back, I can see how much unresolved pain I was carrying. The beliefs I had formed as a little girl, especially the belief that my worth depended on how I looked, were still shaping my life. I was also carrying the effects of a painful marriage and divorce, strained relationships, and years of accumulated stress.

I'd look in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Somewhere along the way, I had lost touch with myself. I could also see the younger version of me, the child who had carried too much for too long, waiting for me to finally pay attention.

That was the moment I surrendered. Not in defeat, but in exhaustion and brutal honesty. In the kind of honesty that says I can't keep going like this.

And God met me right there.

Not with instant answers, but through people. A church family that loved on me. Covenant relationships that felt like lifelines. Women who stood in the gap for me and spoke life over me when I could barely lift my head. Small moments of discipleship and encouragement that reminded me I wasn't alone. Slowly, God started rebuilding me from the inside out, using His Word and community to give me a new foundation, one steadier than anything I had ever stood on before.

And then, in 2020, the world stopped. The pandemic forced me, like so many of us, to sit still. For the first time in years, I paused long enough to sit with some hard questions: Was I living day to day by my values? Why did I care so much about my appearance? What did self-love look like when no one else was watching?

During that season, I began noticing the gaps between what I believed and how I was living. I cared deeply about animals, but I continued eating them. I wanted to care for my health, but alcohol and other habits left me depleted. I believed my worth came from God, yet I still looked to the mirror for reassurance.

I didn't want to keep living with those contradictions.

Slowly, I started redefining what health and worth meant. I began seeing my body not as an enemy to fix, but as something worthy of care. It had carried me through every part of my story.

By the end of 2020, I had stopped avoiding the deeper work. I went to therapy, asked hard questions, and began examining wounds I had kept guarded for years.

I also started paying closer attention to my food. I learned more about its relationship to health and the effects our choices can have on animals and the environment. For the first time, vegan living felt less like a rule I was trying to follow and more like a decision I understood.

I started my vegan journey small, with beans, rice, roasted sweet potatoes, and simple veggies. Nothing fancy, just ingredients that felt honest. As I learned, I experimented more and found a new joy in cooking.

Preparing nourishing meals became one of the ordinary ways I cared for myself. It felt less like following a set of rules and more like tending to another important part of my life.

Over time, I began noticing changes. My sleep improved. My skin cleared. My energy returned. Food and appearance no longer occupied the same controlling place in my life.

Eventually, my passion for the vegan lifestyle led to a certification in plant-based nutrition and a nonprofit called Vegan People, created to help others find the same freedom I had found.

Now, in my fifties, I feel stronger and healthier than I ever did in my twenties. When people ask if I miss eating meat, my answer is absolutely not. I've gained too much to miss what was holding me back.

Your story may look nothing like mine. You may be ready to become fully vegan, or you may simply want to eat more plants. You may be motivated by your health, your faith, the animals, the environment, or your family. You don't need to have everything figured out before you begin.

This book is part testimony, part practical guide, and part invitation. Before you continue, take a moment to consider why you picked it up.

What do you hope will change?

Hold on to that answer. It can help steady you when change feels difficult.

You ready? Let's begin.