Frank Dining Hall has yet to top the lunch for Pomona College’s first-year move-in. A chocolate fountain, massive charcuterie spreads and excellent entrees. Every type of food, in seemingly unlimited amounts.
When I sat down for that first meal, I ignored the anxiety spreading through my body, chalking it up to my urge to cry at the thought of saying goodbye to my family or perhaps the sweltering heat.
But this feeling did not go away at the next meal. Or the next one. Or the following week.
The thought of dining halls became suffocating. The prospect of a meal, which is supposed to be a break to see friends, filled me with overwhelming anxiety, pushing me back into my dorm. Everyone else’s plate around me always seemed perfectly curated, while I hesitated over what to pick, terrified of drawing attention to myself. Should I grab dessert because everyone else did? Was it weird if I went back for seconds? If I take this, will others judge me?
The weight of endless options grew heavy. I spent increasing amounts of time agonizing over the 5C Menu app, trying to balance what I wanted to eat with what I thought others would not notice me eating, all while simultaneously trying to get the most out of the amazing access to food we do have. I spiraled every time food entered my mind: Should I eat now or wait until later in the day? Should I say yes to a late-night snack run when I’m not even that hungry?
At home, meals were predictable, structured — now, there were no rules. It felt like too much freedom and not enough control. A silent pressure to make the “right” choice slowly consumed me, and I felt myself slowly slipping into a disordered eating mindset I have for so long fought to get out of.
For many first-years — or really any student — the freedom of seemingly unlimited dining is not as simple as it sounds. It is often difficult to transition from small, intimate meals with trusted family and close friends to dining halls packed with strangers and constant exposure to the social dynamics of eating. This can complicate our relationship with meals, especially for those with a history of disordered eating.
The paradox of college dining is that unlimited options, rather than feeling freeing, can become a source of constant stress. Food is available most hours of the day — and with it, a relentless need to decide. This abundance can feel like a minefield even for those without a history of disordered eating, food anxiety or food scarcity. The ability to eat whatever, whenever can make it harder to tune into hunger cues.
Worse, there is an unspoken expectation that you should be grateful for this access, leaving little room to discuss how it can be overwhelming.
The pressure I feel is not just about eating, but performing normalcy around food — to look like I have it all together, even when every choice feels fraught.
The Claremont Colleges offer resources, and great ones, too. This past week, MCAPS and the Claremont Colleges dietician organized various events encouraging positive food and body relationships. You can schedule sessions with a registered dietitian through Monsour Counseling and Psychological Services, who can provide guidance on eating habits and nutrition. Pitzer’s Strive2Thrive offers peer support and wellness education and the Eating Disorder Task Force connects students with additional resources and advocacy. Beyond these formal services, Residential Advisors can also direct students to appropriate support.
However, the efficacy of institutional resources is limited without a cultural shift — one that moves away from framing food anxiety as an individual weakness and instead recognizes it as a collective responsibility.
Despite how common these feelings are, conversations about them remain rare among students.
Food anxiety undoubtedly remains a taboo subject, and, admittedly, for good reason. No one wants to inadvertently trigger someone else to relapse into harmful habits or contribute more to stress around food.
I initially feared that discussing food in any context would project my problems onto others, making them feel the need to worry about their meals in the same way I constantly did. But when I brought it up with some of my closest friends, I realized it was not just a me problem. All of them were insanely supportive, and many expressed similar anxieties, even months into the school year. This is not a mountain one can quickly climb over alone.
Small actions, like checking in with friends, being mindful of how we talk about food and bodies and creating judgment-free environments, can ease the pressure many feel. When we share our experiences, it reduces personal isolation and signals to others that they shouldn’t shame themselves for these feelings.
I recognize that opening up about food struggles is not easy — I would shut myself in my dorm at lunch to avoid it. It can feel vulnerable, even risky, to admit that you’re struggling in a culture that often prizes independence.
But those conversations matter. Being honest with a friend or reaching out for support can be the first step toward feeling less alone.
And if it is any consolation, despite the constant anxiety that others were judging me, I have never looked at someone else’s food choices and thought anything of it.
Sarah Russo PO ’28 is a PPE major. She loves going to the gym with friends, listening to Tyler Childers and spending her free time in the Village.
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