I recently made a post on Facebook asking people what I should write about next – just tossing the question out into the void to see what came back. There weren’t many responses, but the ones I did get stuck with me. One in particular came from Jason, a new friend I met at a Fourth of July gathering. He hosted the kind of celebration that doesn’t feel performative – just real, laid-back, full of heart and connection. The kind of day that reminds you why you even try to be around people at all.

Jason shared a memory of a book he once read. One of the most powerful stories he’d ever come across, though he couldn’t remember the title or find the book again. All he remembered was the heart of it:

A nomadic tribe in the desert, always on the move, always under threat, finally decided they’d had enough. They were tired of being preyed upon by a more powerful, bullying force. So, for the first time in their history, they stopped. And they built a wall. Not a fortress to invade others, just a line in the sand. A decision to stay. A stand.

But that simple act, building a wall, enraged the bully. It challenged the dynamic, the balance of control. And so, the wall became the spark of war. And the war led to more walls. Bigger ones. Hardened ones. And the story went from defense… to escalation.

Jason asked the kind of question that lingers like smoke in the back of your thoughts:
Do we have walls because of war, or war because of walls?

It was one of those strange inversions that reshuffle the way your brain works. Like a slightly more serious, ancient version of chicken or egg – only this time the answer might say something about why we fight, why we separate, and maybe even why we suffer. But the more I sat with his question, the more my mind wandered – not just to walls, but to choices. Not just to war, but to food.

The First “No”

I have this theory, completely untested, that the first real shift in human nature didn’t come from language or agriculture or even the wheel. I think it might have come from food. Or more specifically: the first time a human said “no” to the food that would nourish them, and instead said “yes” to the food that tasted better. Imagine it. You’re walking with your clan across some early stretch of Earth: gatherers, hunters, survivalists. You stumble upon a root that kept your ancestors alive. Tough. Bitter. Dense with nutrients. You know it feeds you.

And next to it, something new. A fruit, maybe. Or a fat-laced piece of roasted meat. Something sweet, smoky, or savory. Something that doesn’t just feed your body, it pleases your mouth.

And in that moment… you choose.

You say no to what keeps you alive, and yes to what makes you feel alive. That’s the moment I keep coming back to. The moment of first separation, not between tribes, but within the self. The point where instinct got interrupted by preference. That was perhaps our first real wall.

It’s not that wanting something tasty is wrong. Pleasure has its place! But when you have to choose between what feels good and what does good, something in you splits. That’s where I’ve been living lately.

I’m on a very strict diet – not for vanity, not for trends, but because my body needs certain things to function well. I don’t always have the luxury of “eating whatever.” My body keeps score. So I try to choose what nourishes. I try to listen to what it needs, not just what it craves. But every day, I feel that quiet tug-of-war: The voice that says “just a little won’t hurt.” The dopamine hit of sugar, salt, texture, memory. The fake comfort of foods engineered to override your biology.

And I wonder how many of us are losing that same battle. Not just with food – but with our lives. Because once you can choose, you also must choose. And that’s both a gift and a burden. And in America, maybe more than anywhere else, we are buried in choices. We celebrate pickiness. We have entire identities built around preference. Vegan, paleo, gluten-free, sugar-free, organic, carnivore, Whole30, intuitive eating, emotional eating, binge eating, fasting, snacking, scrolling, suppressing, indulging…

We’ve turned food into identity. Into status. Into reward and punishment. Into love and shame.

But food was once just fuel. And choice was once just survival. Now, food is theater. Choice is indulgence. And the body is a battlefield between old instincts and modern appetites.

Where It All Collides

Jason’s wall and my food cravings might seem unrelated. However, I think they both point to the same threshold – when humans started drawing lines between what is and what we want it to be. We build walls to keep others out, but sometimes we build them to separate ourselves from our own vulnerability. We choose food for taste, but sometimes we do it to avoid emotion. Or silence. Or control. What starts as protection becomes prison. What starts as pleasure becomes poison.

And maybe every war – whether it’s between tribes, countries, or cells in the body – starts with that first disconnection from what nourishes us.

I think about that unknown tribe, building their first wall. I think about that ancient human, holding two roots in their hand: one bitter, one sweet. I think about the power of saying no, and the quiet consequences that ripple outward from that moment. Every choice I make – every bite, every boundary, every “yes” and “no” – feels heavier now. Not with guilt, but with awareness. Because choice is never neutral. It’s never “just” a wall. Or “just” a snack. Or “just” one time. It’s a line. A fork. A future.

So I try to choose nourishment over taste.
Substance over craving.
Presence over performance.

Because I’m not just feeding my body.
I’m feeding what kind of human I want to be.