Y’hello Beastie!
You read that right. I used to be a junkie.
Not for hard drugs, needles, or pills, but for something soft. Sweet. Perfectly legal. The kind of thing no one would suspect could have a grip on you.
My drug of choice? Chocolate. Swiss chocolate. The real kind.
Not the waxy stuff that melts like sadness on your tongue. I’m talking about the good stuff. The kind that makes you close your eyes. The kind you save the last square of because it feels like a goodbye. Chocolate that became my safe place, my comfort blanket, my reward, my secret. Chocolate that met me after every hard day and told me I was still worthy. Still okay.
And for a long time, I believed it.
But that’s the thing about addiction. Most people don’t notice when they’re in it. Especially when it doesn’t come in a syringe or a bottle, but in a pretty little foil wrapper. Especially when everyone around you is saying, “It’s just chocolate.”
Except it wasn’t just chocolate. Not for me.
It was medicine. It was a numbing agent. It was a shield from the life I was living at home.
The addiction didn’t start right away. First, there was Switzerland. And before Switzerland, there was a plan.
My parents and my uncle decided I’d be sent to a boarding school in France, just across the border. I’d come back to Switzerland on weekends. The logistics made sense, I guess. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I never wanted to live in France.
No offense to France, but some places are best left as vacation spots. And France? My spirit said no. Even the ancestors said no. I’m convinced they gathered in a circle, looked at the map, and collectively whispered, “Anywhere but there.” But my uncle and his wife pushed anyway. Hard.
While they dragged their feet and pushed papers, they kept insisting that France made the most sense. I was already used to the French system from our country of origin, so in their minds, the transition would be easy. But I didn’t want it. I had no desire to live in France. And while they kept pushing, I sat at home. For months. Wasting time. Falling behind.
Every day, I watched other kids walk home from what I knew was a local school. Backpacks bouncing, jackets half-zipped, the air around them buzzing with after-school energy. I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged. Pleaded. Argued.
I told them to enroll me there. In the Swiss school. And if they still wanted to work on placing me in the French school, they could do that too. But at least in the meantime, I’d be in class instead of sitting at home losing time and missing my education.
My uncle’s wife was relentless. “The Swiss system is too different,” she said. “You won’t adapt. You’ll fall behind.”
But it was my life. And I wasn’t just sitting around. I was already doing the laundry, ironing and folding clothes, tidying up the house, tasks that were supposed to be hers. She was a stay-at-home mom, but I was the one keeping things in order. Me, a child.
Besides, how would she even know what the Swiss school system was like? She had just moved from Holland herself. She had never studied here. What did she actually know? Or was it something else? Something she didn’t say out loud?
Eventually, they gave in. I was enrolled three months late. And wouldn’t you know it? I adapted just fine. I always do.
It was during that first week, barely finding my footing and still learning how to exist in this new world, that I met her. The girl who would become my best friend.
She didn’t come with a rescue plan or a magic wand. But she came with laughter. With light. With ease. With kindness.
She saw me. And in a life that had started to feel heavy and controlled, her presence reminded me that I was still allowed to just be a girl.
Our friendship wasn’t built on grand moments. It was built between classes, on sidewalks, in shared silence and simple conversations. It gave me a sense of belonging in a world where I had none.
The chocolate obsession came later. That was mine alone.
And since we’re talking about Switzerland, the land of chocolate royalty, it’s only fair to introduce the characters in this particular addiction story.
There are two supermarket giants in Switzerland: Coop and Migros. Coop is like the polished, slightly fancier older sibling. Migros is the everyday, practical one, the one you grow up with. Inside Migros lives a special line of no-frills, dirt-cheap products called M-Budget, wrapped in unmistakable green-and-white packaging. M-budget is to Migros what Great Value is to Walmart.
And let me tell you, M-Budget chocolate bars became my thing.
They weren’t fancy. They weren’t trying to impress anyone. But they were sweet, simple, and always there. I wasn’t just getting one. I was buying them in packs of ten. Always.
That’s when I knew this wasn’t about flavor anymore. It was about relief. Escape. A way to soothe the ache of a life that never gave me space to feel.
It started slow and innocent, but eventually it turned into its own private ritual. Somewhere in the chaos of surviving that apartment, I developed a personal chocolate caste system:
- Lindt, Läderach, Toblerone: Royalty. Worth every franc.
- Migros’ M-Budget: The soft, nostalgic comfort chocolate. The one that felt like a warm blanket on a bad day.
- Coop’s: The fallback. The chocolate you grab when you’re desperate but still pretending it hits the same.
Those silly chocolate debates? They happened in my own head. And sometimes, they were the only joy I had that day. Because at home, the fairy tale was broken. I was the Cinderella without the magic.
My uncle’s wife, the evil mother in my story, turned me into her housekeeper. Every time she had a child, I became a second mother. Except I never asked for that. I didn’t get a say. I was a child robbed of her own childhood.
I’d come home from school and be expected to clean, cook, take care of the little ones. Then, when I’d finally sit down to study, she’d shut off the lights. “The electricity bill is too high,” she said, knowing full well I had homework. Knowing full well I had exams. Knowing full well I was trying to build a future.
So, I adapted.
I stayed late at school, using every minute I could to finish my homework there. Under school lights I didn’t have to pay for. It was the only way to keep moving forward.
But life has a way of wearing you down. And somewhere in those long days and dim nights, chocolate crept in. It became my fix. My break from reality. My only softness.
At first, it was innocent. One bar here, a few squares there. But over time, it became a need. An itch. A craving that went deeper than taste. I didn’t just want chocolate. I needed it. For relief. For numbness. For the illusion of control.
And that’s what addiction is. It’s not about pleasure. It’s about escape. It doesn’t always look like the movies. Sometimes it looks like a teenage girl in Switzerland, sitting alone on the floor with a chocolate bar and a blank stare.
I didn’t talk about it. I just ate. Quietly. Often. Desperately.
At one point, I got curious. I wondered just how much chocolate I was actually going through in a year. That curiosity didn’t come from a place of judgment. It was more like stepping outside of myself for a second and looking in.
By then, my habit had become so embedded in my routine that I wouldn’t leave the house without at least two 100-gram bars of M-Budget chocolate. One was mine, fully mine. The other one was optional, in case someone asked or the opportunity to share came up.
That was the baseline. One bar a day, minimum. Two on a good day. More if I was stressed. More if I was angry. More if I was anxious. Which meant, more often than not, it was two bars a day. Sometimes even more than that.
It was bad. Very bad.
So bad, in fact, that I once went nearly two weeks without speaking to my best friend because she had the audacity to eat chocolate in front of me without offering me any. What was she doing? What kind of betrayal was that? I was genuinely upset.
Eventually, she came back around, probably tired of my dramatic silence, and offered me a bar of chocolate. Not just any chocolate. A brand I’d never seen before.
It was called Lola. Yes, Lola chocolate.
I still laugh about that. I’ve tried to find it online just to prove it exists, but no luck yet. Maybe next time I go back to Switzerland, I’ll find some and bring it back to show you.
That moment softened me. I broke my silent protest. And for the first time, I shared one of my bars. Just one. Just a piece. But it was something. And that tiny act of sharing was the first crack in the armor. That was also when I started doing the math. Really doing it. A hundred grams a day. Two hundred grams on most days. Multiply that by a week, then by a month, then a year.
The numbers were horrifying.
I don’t remember the moment it crossed the line. Most addicts don’t. But I remember that moment of curiosity. And what followed. The silent realization that I had lost control.
And eventually, I remember the moment I decided I wanted out.
Lent.
I was raised Catholic, though I don’t practice anymore. In fact, I’m no longer a Christian at all. Today’s Christianity and those who claim to speak for it only reinforce why I walked away. But that’s a tale for another time.
Back then, Lent was still something I observed. So that year, I made the decision to give up chocolate. Just to see if I could. Before Lent started, I made sure to finish all the chocolate I had at home. I didn’t want any nearby when the time came. I thought that would be enough to make it easier.
It wasn’t.
I don’t even remember what I went to the grocery store for on that first day. All I remember is the checkout line. I was standing there, surrounded by chocolate. Candy bars. Kinder eggs. Seasonal deals. Every corner of the cashier’s lane was covered in it.
And I couldn’t have any.
Not because I didn’t want to. I did. I needed it. But I had made a promise. And now my body was screaming. What had I done?
I started sweating. My breathing got choppy. My hands were shaking. My vision started to blur from the pressure building in my chest.
By the time I got to the cashier, she looked at me and asked if I was alright. I said yes. I lied. I just needed to get out of there.
I made it home, dropped everything, and ran straight to bed. I curled into myself and started crying. Still sweating. Still shaking. My skin felt like it was buzzing. I kept thinking if I could just have one square, just one piece, I’d be fine again. Just a little taste to stop the fire under my skin. Just one piece, however small. One piece.
But I didn’t give in. I had promised.
I cried myself to sleep.
That’s how the first few days of Lent went. Each day a small war. Each moment a test. And then one day, I forgot. I forgot how much it used to hurt. I forgot what that pull felt like. It just stopped having a hold on me.
Day by day, I held on. And when Easter came, something had changed. The grip had loosened. My body was quieter. My mind was clearer. My emotions, still messy, but no longer silenced by sugar.
I had done it. Chocolate no longer had a grip on me. I was free.
But the way I did it was not safe.
I quit cold turkey. Alone. No plan. No support. And though the idea was noble – a personal sacrifice for Lent – it was reckless. I could have ended up in the hospital. The withdrawal was real. My body went into shock. The panic, the shakes, the emotional spirals. All of it was a sign that my system was used to leaning on chocolate to regulate itself.
If you’re struggling with addiction, whether it’s food, alcohol, nicotine, or anything else, I don’t recommend quitting cold turkey on your own. It can be dangerous. Withdrawal can cause intense physical and emotional symptoms, and without support, those symptoms can spiral.
Instead, talk to someone. A doctor. A therapist. A support group. Build a plan. Ease out instead of tearing away. Healing is not about punishment. It’s about care.
That was the beginning of my healing. And healing didn’t just mean letting go of chocolate. It meant learning how to eat with intention instead of emotion. It meant choosing what nourished me instead of what numbed me. That’s why I created tools for people who are ready to do the same.
If you’re struggling with emotional eating or want to break free from food cycles that feel out of your control, I invite you to grab our 21-day custom meal plan built for your body, your life, and your goals. Or if you want something a bit longer, our Nutri 12 plan would be perfect. It is also our most popular plan.
These aren’t diets. They’re maps back to you. Because food shouldn’t be the enemy. It should be a partner. And if you need someone to help you find your way, I’m here. I’ve walked that path. I still walk it.
I still eat chocolate today. But it no longer owns me. It doesn’t fill a void. It’s just a treat now, not a need. And that, to me, is freedom.
Leave your thoughts in the comments below. I’d love to hear your story too.