Maybe it started as a small rebellion against the heaviness of the week. I woke up already tired, dragging myself through the motions of Tuesday as if the day had decided to stretch into something twice its length. Everything I touched felt rushed, mechanical, and grey. And then, somewhere between meetings, papers, and the dull rhythm of obligations, I felt it—the urge to stop being so damn dutiful for once. Not in a dramatic way, not by throwing it all out the window, but in a quiet, stubborn act of kindness toward myself. That’s when the idea of pizza entered, not as a craving, but as a declaration: today I am going to feed myself something that makes me feel human again.
Because pleasure doesn’t have to scream. It doesn’t always live in parties, drinks, or reckless escapes. Sometimes it hides in the warmth of melted cheese, the softness of dough, the way corn and ham sit together on a slice that feels both humble and celebratory. I wasn’t trying to drown sadness or distract myself from the weight I carried. I just wanted to taste something that reminded me I am here, alive, and capable of choosing myself in the middle of routine. That’s the paradox—pizza is ordinary, available on any corner, but in the right moment it transforms into a reminder of joy. Eating it was not indulgence for indulgence’s sake. It was me saying: I deserve a pause, I deserve something more than surviving today.
Truth is, when I sat down at that table, I wasn’t thinking of writing about it. I wasn’t thinking of anything but the first bite, hot and clumsy, stretching strings of cheese as if they refused to let go. I saw my reflection in the glass, eyes tired yet stubborn, and realized this wasn’t only food. This was me reclaiming a piece of myself that had been buried under deadlines and expectations. Around me, people laughed, talked, or stared at their own plates, each one tangled in their personal storms. The light spilled harshly through the windows, and the smell of the pizza reached me before the taste did. That first bite landed heavy and comforting, the kind of comfort that doesn’t disappear as fast as it arrives.
Underneath it all was the recognition that life doesn’t hand out medals for endurance. Nobody claps for the hours I spend pushing past exhaustion, nobody gives me points for swallowing the bitterness of a hard day. But I can clap for myself in small ways, like choosing this slice, like looking straight at the moment and not apologizing for enjoying it. The crust crunching under my teeth was proof that care doesn’t always need candles or elaborate plans. It can be as simple as saying yes to myself in the middle of a noisy room. I don’t need to explain it to anyone, or justify it as a reward. It is not a guilty pleasure, it’s just pleasure, stripped of guilt and stripped of grand meaning. And maybe that is what makes it sacred.
So here I am, on a Tuesday that could have drowned me, writing about pizza. Not because it is extraordinary, but because I needed to remind myself that even the most ordinary things can hold extraordinary power if I let them. I wanted to feel whole, even if only for the span of a lunch break, and I found that in a wooden board carrying slices of melted, imperfect joy. Sometimes choosing pleasure isn’t about running away from pain; it’s about meeting it with something gentle, edible, and grounding. The world keeps spinning, my responsibilities wait for me, but I leave this table with more than I brought. I leave with the certainty that I can create my own pauses, and that those pauses are enough to keep me alive in the truest sense.
