The Overlooked Significance of Food in Psychiatric Care
There is no question that food is a core part of our identity. What we eat—how, when, where, and why—tells a story of culture, heritage, and personal experience. For people living with mental health diagnoses, this connection to food is no less significant. And yet, within the confines of psychiatric hospitals, food is often treated as an afterthought—bland, institutional, and lacking the comfort that food can provide.
In Westchester County, psychiatric patients eat the same meals served in the correctional facility. This is not an exaggeration; it is a disturbing reflection of how mental health is often dehumanized in our public systems. There is no differentiation between the meals served to individuals recovering from a mental health crisis and those designed for punitive environments.
For individuals battling the internal chaos of psychosis, depression, or mania, comfort food isn’t just a luxury—it’s a lifeline. But in psychiatric settings, comfort food is virtually non-existent.
A Personal Reflection: The Memory of Food in Recovery
I remember my own early hospitalizations vividly. Near the end of my stay, as I prepared for discharge, I would sometimes be granted a day pass. My family would pick me up, and as part of our celebration, we would eat at a restaurant. For me, those meals symbolized freedom, progress, and hope. They were a reminder that normal life existed outside hospital walls.
But for many patients, this kind of family support is a privilege—one they do not have. Countless individuals are hospitalized hundreds of miles away from home, with no visitors and no opportunity to reconnect with familiar tastes and traditions. Their experience is confined to the hospital cafeteria and its limited menu.
During my hospitalization at Greater Binghamton Health Center, I discovered an unspoken truth—sauces and condiments, simple things that add flavor to otherwise bland food, were kept under lock and key. Staff discouraged their use because catering to patients’ individual palates was seen as too much effort.
I recall the small but profound joy of discovering a hidden stash of barbecue sauce—locked away and reserved only for those patients who knew which staff member to ask. It took me three months to learn this secret, a period in which every meal felt mechanical and joyless.
Food as a Symbol of Dignity
This piece isn’t just about food. It’s about dignity.
When I was hospitalized upstate, my speech was often incoherent—riddled with “word salad” from psychosis. I struggled to express basic needs, yet I clearly remember telling my family, “I want Quiznos.” That simple request became a beacon of clarity in an otherwise disorienting time.
I never did get that Quiznos sandwich, but the memory sticks with me because it represents **agency—**the simple human desire to choose what we eat.
For those of us recovering from psychiatric episodes, food can ground us in reality. It can bridge the gap between the isolating experience of hospitalization and the comfort of everyday life.
Snack Time: A Respite from the Chaos
In a previous blog post, I reflected on snack time—a brief but cherished reprieve in the hospital schedule. I described how a simple slice of lemon cake or a cup of coffee could offer a moment of peace. These moments matter. They remind patients of life’s simple pleasures, allowing them to step away, if only for a few minutes, from the unrelenting focus on their illness.
Yet even snack time is micromanaged. In psychiatric hospitals, every calorie is counted, every snack portion controlled.
I recall the strange practice of “trading.” Patients would exchange parts of their meals—an extra pudding cup for a carton of milk, a piece of bread for an apple. On the surface, it seemed harmless—a small way for patients to exercise autonomy. But staff didn’t see it that way.
Trading was prohibited.
If caught, we were placed on meal restriction, isolated at a table to eat alone. This kind of punishment reinforced the institutional message:
•You are not in control.
•You cannot be trusted with your own body.
Eating in a psychiatric hospital was already isolating enough. To be separated further, punished for simply trying to make a meal more palatable, felt needlessly cruel.
Challenging the System: A Call for Change
The Office of Mental Health (OMH) and hospital dietitians operate under the assumption that all psychiatric patients are incapable of regulating their food intake. This blanket policy reflects a deep misunderstanding of mental health.
While certain units, such as those treating eating disorders, must closely monitor nutrition, this should not apply universally to all psychiatric patients. The idea that anyone with a mental illness cannot manage their food intake is demeaning and outdated.
I am calling for a simple yet significant policy shift:
•Recognize that mental health disorders vary widely. Not all patients need strict dietary oversight.
•Empower patients in general psychiatric units to make choices about their meals, allowing for flexibility and autonomy.
•Offer cultural foods, comfort options, and personal touches that acknowledge food’s role in healing.
This small change could have a profound impact on patient morale, dignity, and recovery.
A Matter of Equity and Humanity
Psychiatric patients deserve the same level of respect and consideration afforded to others in the healthcare system.
When we talk about “recovery-oriented care,” we cannot overlook the details—the small, seemingly insignificant aspects of hospitalization that define the experience. Food may not cure mental illness, but it can alleviate suffering, foster connection, and remind patients of their humanity.
A simple meal can be an anchor—a reminder that life exists beyond the hospital walls.
Let’s start there.
Author Info:
Max E. Guttman
Max E. Guttman is the owner of Mindful Living LCSW, PLLC, a private mental health practice in Yonkers, New York.
0 thoughts on “The Memory of Food in Recovery”
Very interesting post. I hope you can succeed in getting changes made to the system.