BYLINE: Some people fear spiders, others fear public speaking. Me? I feared carbs at a dinner date.

INTRODUCTION

There’s a specific kind of terror that grips you when a basket of warm sourdough lands smack in the middle of the table, and your skyline of self-control starts crumbling faster than the crust you’re about to demolish. I know because I lived it. For years, I avoided bread baskets like a plot twist I wasn’t ready to face—and not for the usual low-carb, paleo-reason-du-jour reasons. This was deeper. My fear of carbs wasn’t just nutritional; it was almost metaphysical.

Would indulging make me seem “high maintenance”? Too indulgent? How much buttering was too much buttering? This fear managed to follow me, yeast-like in its persistence, from first dates to anniversary dinners, flowing like a magma of insecurity under my carefully cultivated image of chic control. Until one night in a hidden French bistro turned it all around.

That night, I conquered a fear I didn’t even know ruled my dating life. And spoiler: I haven’t looked back since.

THE RISE (AND DOUGH) OF FOOD FEAR

My relationship with food started in my family’s vineyards, where meals were never just meals—they were an orchestration: wine pairings, six-hour braises, and tiny works of art masquerading as truffles. I could rhapsodize about tannin and terroir by middle school, but somehow, this sophistication came with an unrelenting voice in my head: Dining must always look effortlessly chic.

When I started dating, food became even more loaded. There was pressure to mirror an imaginary ideal: Someone who could indulge but not too much, someone spontaneous but discreet, passionate yet controlled. Which is a very poetic way of saying I spent a lot of dinners overthinking.

Cue my deep-seated bread-basket panic. I associated mindless munching with recklessness, and recklessness with failure. Picking up that bread? It felt like broadcasting, “Yes, hi, I am wildly unlovable and also, bread is my therapy!”

This irrational spiraling reached its peak with one guy: Let’s call him The Bruschetta Incident.

THE BRUSCHETTA INCIDENT

It was a deceptively idyllic evening: string lights, the scent of basil in the air, and me, perched across a man whose hair was just messy enough to make you believe he didn’t try too hard (but, oh, he tried).

As the waiter set down bruschetta—the crown jewel of carbs—I set the first rule: Don’t touch it first. Let him see you’re in control. And then I waited what felt like fourteen years for him to pick up the first piece.

Finally, he did. Success? Hardly. He startled me with, “Go ahead, have one!” I froze, weighing the optics of spreading mozzarella and tomato paste across toast like I’d been handed nuclear codes. My nervous hands fumbled the bread mid-air, dropping it like a slapstick scene—and in that moment, I wanted to exit stage left forever.

The date fizzled. My overthinking, of course, was the real culprit. Bread wasn’t sabotaging my romantic life; I was sabotaging my romantic life by refusing to embrace the not-so-polished parts of myself. So, after a bit of soul-searching and the encouragement of Pinot Noir, I decided it was time to conquer my carb-fear—and, more important, my obsessive need to control how I was perceived.

THE NIGHT EVERYTHING CHANGED

Flash forward to a year later. I found myself in a cozy French restaurant on yet another first date. This time, the man across from me seemed different—deft in his conversation, casual yet attentive. And then, as if the universe wanted to test my growth, the waiter slid an entire basket of baguette slices onto the table.

Usually, this would’ve been my cue to panic-swirl my wine. But this time, I made a decision: I reached for the bread first. Yes, first. I slathered on whipped butter, took a hearty bite, and allowed a deep, gustatory sigh to escape.

And do you know what happened next?

Absolutely nothing.

No romantic thunderclap, no gasp of horror, no spotlight illuminating my obvious (and fictional) moral failings. The world didn’t end. It turns out, men don’t judge women for eating carbs (and, frankly, if they do, why are they at dinner?!). My date smiled and reached for his own slice. We spent the rest of the evening laughing about everything from bad movie endings to how bread legitimately smells like happiness. The moonlight caught his grin just right, and I thought: Damn, this feels good.

LETTING GO OF THE (FOOD) FACADE

In hindsight, the bread wasn’t just bread—it was a metaphorical Trojan Horse. My fixation on being “perfect” during dates—whether through foodie etiquette or hiding my quirks—was fencing me off from real connection. And here’s the kicker most of us don’t want to admit: dating isn’t about dazzling someone by being flawless. It’s about making room for shared crumbs, laughter, and, yes, even your awkward moments.

Once I let go of the bread-basket fear, other things followed. I stopped apologizing for adding a splash too much cream to my morning coffee. I stopped panicking about ordering dessert “first.” I even discovered the joy of devouring paninis without cutting them into dainty quadrants! Life became less about image and more about genuine experience.

TIPS FOR YOUR OWN FEAR-FIGHTING MOMENT

Courage comes in different packages, but here are a few techniques that helped me swap fear for freedom:

1. Call Out the Fear (and Laugh at It).
Acknowledge your irrational fear for what it is: irrational. For me, I realized no one cared about my carb intake as much as I did. Pinpointing the absurdity of it dulled its power.

2. Take Baby Steps.
If there’s something holding you back in relationships—an insecurity about dining, texting, or even kissing—try addressing it in low-stakes scenarios first. Start with little acts of courage (for me, that was buttering toast in front of a mirror…yes, really).

3. Reframe the Narrative.
Allow yourself to ask, “What’s the worst that could happen?” Dropped bruschetta might cost your inner dignity, but guess what: It’s funny. Humor often makes us more memorable and endearing—not less.

*4. Embrace the Messy.
No one falls in love with a curated spreadsheet of a person. Whether it’s the humor of spinach in your teeth or the charm of owning a bread basket snafu, your quirks will be what make someone stay.

CONCLUSION

I didn’t just conquer my fear of bread at a dinner date—I learned to stop obsessing over having a “perfect” exterior. Life gets delicious when you let your guard down and taste it fully.

Because love, much like French bread, is better when shared unapologetically—and with plenty of butter. Bon appétit.