Bubble Tea, Snacks, Cake: Four Myths About Mindful Eating Being Only for Wholesome Food

Mindfulness does not make you give up bubble tea.

I know that sounds like a declaration, and when I first read about mindful eating, I did not believe it either. I already had a picture in my head: a person sitting in front of a bowl of plain rice porridge, chopsticks laid straight, chewing thirty times, while the bag of seaweed snacks on the corner of my work desk was proof that I was not suited to any of this.

If you have ever felt you were "not qualified" to try, because what you usually eat is bubble tea, cake and little snacks, this is about four things I used to believe and had to let go of. I am writing it in the voice of someone who thought the same, not someone who already knows everything.

Let me say this first so it is not misread: this piece does not say which food is good and which is bad. It does not tell you to eat more or less either. It is only about paying attention, in a very small way, and attention does not need permission from any food. If you would like one practice for ordinary meals, meditation for the first three bites goes in a nearby direction.

The afternoon cup of bubble tea does not need anyone's permission

Three in the afternoon, a large bubble tea on the desk, the side of the cup sweating into the palm of my hand. I pushed the wide straw through the lid and heard that familiar pop. Outside, motorbikes revved at the junction, and the company Zalo group buzzed three times.

Linh, at the next desk, looked over.

"No bubble tea today? You're doing mindfulness, aren't you."

"Yes, so that's why I'm having it."

"Sounds backwards."

"I'm trying just the first three sips, to see."

People often believe mindfulness has a list of "deserving" foods, and bubble tea is not on it. I used to think the reason I did not try was that I loved sweet things. The truth was different. I drank bubble tea in a kind of secret: fast, one hand holding the cup behind the screen, a little guilty. And eating in secret is eating in a hurry, and hurry tastes nothing. To taste a cup of bubble tea you first have to stop feeling guilty about it, meaning you allow yourself to really drink it, in daylight, in front of colleagues. Attention comes after permission, not before.

You will know you did it right when you can say how the third sip differed from the first, even if it was only "less cold". The first time, I felt awkward, and three sips stretched oddly, and the cup still emptied like any other day. After a few afternoons, some people say they slow down without being told, some realise the tea is sweeter than they thought, and some drink it all as before and notice no change. All three are fine. On a busy day, shrink it to one thing: the first sip, letting it rest in your mouth for a beat.

I made a charming mistake once: I drank those first three sips very slowly, then gave myself a bonus point for "drinking mindfully". It was tempting because it turned attention into a way of making up for the bubble tea. But only after I had tasted it did I realise I had simply swapped guilt for pride, and neither of them is the flavour of the tea. What I do instead is give no points, not even good ones. Once the three sips are done, I drink the rest as usual.

The snack bag on the corner of the desk, and a rustle I do not remember hearing

Ten past four, the report open on the screen, the cursor blinking on the third line while my mind had not yet decided what to say. My left hand felt down toward the corner of the desk, dragged over the seaweed snack bag, tore the plastic edge. A rustle. A faint salty sea smell. Two hours later I looked down and the bag was empty, only a few crumbs stuck to the bottom.

People often think mindless snacking is a lack of willpower, so mindfulness has to come with giving up snacks. I think it is different. The hand that felt down to the corner of the desk was not hungry. It was looking for something to do while my eyes waited for a file to export, for a reply to arrive, for an idea to turn up. The snack bag was the peg that kept the wait from being empty. So if I only forbid the hand, it will look for something else to hold. To change anything, I have to notice what the hand is looking for.

You will know you did it right when you can say what your hand was looking for: chewing, nibbling, or just something to do. The first time, I was surprised by how rarely it was hunger. After a week, some people say they still eat the bag as before but notice that they are eating, some notice that only at certain hours does the hand reach for it. Others see no change, because for them snacking is simply snacking. A shorter version for days piled with work: just pick up the first piece, look at it, then eat it.

Where I slipped was making rules. Only ten pieces, only once a day, always tuck the bag into my backpack after pouring. It sounded like self-control and taking the exercise seriously. But rules breed rule-breaking, and rule-breaking breeds guilt, and guilt, as I said above, makes me eat in a hurry. What helps is making no rule at all, only asking one question before the first piece: what is my hand looking for. The question does not have to have an answer. If you often snack while scrolling, scrolling for thirty minutes and not remembering what you saw is about the same habit.

A slice of cake in the middle of the whole room's laughter

Half past four, the small meeting room, someone has just turned off the lights and brought out a cheesecake sponge for a colleague's birthday. Out-of-tune singing, clapping, white plastic plates passed from hand to hand. I took a slice from the corner, the cream a little soft at the edge. My hand already held the fork while my head was still back at the laughter.

I used to believe that paying attention to the cake meant stepping out of the party. Sitting there with my eyes closed, analysing each layer while everyone talked, sounded like a stranger at a banquet. And I thought mindfulness made people lose the fun and the taste.

The truth was that I was mixing two things up. Attention does not make me separate from others. One round of tasting takes two seconds, and two seconds is enough to laugh and be present at the same time. What spoiled the fun was not attention, but the idea that attention has to be done properly, meaning the whole party has to be silent so I can taste.

You will know you did it right when the person beside you does not notice what you just did. The first time, I hesitated a little, and someone asked why I had gone blank, and I said "so good". After a few times, some people say they find they can taste and laugh together, and others still feel clumsy. A shorter version: just look at the cake for a beat before you bite.

I tend to overdo it: finding a private corner to eat properly, or going so unusually quiet that friends ask whether something is wrong. It looks like I am being very serious. But it makes attention into something that makes everyone cautious. What helps instead is slipping attention in exactly where other people are busy choosing a slice, telling a story, photographing the cake, and I have two seconds of my own that nobody sees.

The tin of butter cookies at ten at night, already half gone

Ten at night, the ceiling fan turning slowly, my phone screen lit on my lap. I sat down on the floor after a long day and the tin of butter cookies was already more than half gone, I could not say when. Crumbs on my shirt. The taste of butter still in my mouth, a half-eaten cookie still in my hand.

What I told myself then was familiar: not again. That's ruined. What kind of mindfulness is this.

I thought it was a lack of willpower. But looking closely, the word "ruined" is one more way of grading. I was using mindfulness as an exam, and tonight I had failed. Meanwhile the practice had never promised to give me marks. Noticing that I was eating in a fog, halfway through, with half the tin gone, was already being present. It arrived late, and late is still arriving.

You will know you did it right when you can say that last sentence without a verdict attached. The first time, I found it hard, because it usually trailed a "but". After a week, some people feel a little less guilt, some notice nothing except spotting it sooner. A shorter version: just put down what is in your hand for one beat.

Where I tend to slip is using this one attentive piece to pay off the whole tin. As if one present bite pardoned the half tin before it. It is tempting because it gives me the feeling that I can fix things. But that is still grading, only now I am grading myself a pass. What I do instead is no paying off and no punishing. A present bite is just a present bite.

If eating too much, or heavy guilt after eating, keeps repeating over weeks, or comes with a feeling of not being able to stop, that is a place to talk with a doctor or someone with professional training. It is not a failure of mindfulness, and this article cannot replace that conversation.

If you try a few times and it still feels forced

This happens, and there is nothing wrong with you.

The most common reason is that the food you chose has nothing to taste. The snack bag I eat every day is so familiar its flavour has nearly vanished. Try something with a clearer taste, like a slice of sour mango, a mint sweet, or a glass of cold lemon tea, and notice the difference. Attention needs something to hold on to. Smell before you eat is an easier way in when the taste is too faint.

The second reason is that you are too hungry, or too tired. Then the body wants to eat first and pay attention later, and forcing it the other way round only adds irritation. Eating first is fine. Attention can arrive at the last bite, or at tomorrow's meal.

And if none of these suits you, that is fine too. Some people simply do not like to notice while they eat, and they eat perfectly well. Mindfulness at the table is not something everyone needs.

Tomorrow afternoon, if you stand at the bubble tea counter with the usual list in front of you, try letting the cold cup rest in your palm one beat longer.

The cup is not going anywhere. Neither is the sweetness.