How to Spot the Silent Ways You’re Measuring Your Worth
- Vikki da Rocha
- Jul 25
- 4 min read
Dear wonderful humans!
Let's talk about the lunch tin and how it quietly becomes one of the many ways we start measuring our worth.
Not the stainless-steel, bento-box, hand-labelled variety you see in perfectly filtered social media reels, no, no. I mean our kind. The one we pack with hope, pride, and half a cucumber that's been carved into the shape of a heart by a tool that promised Pinterest but mainly delivered mashed produce.
You know the one.
It starts with good intentions. You chop, you portion, and you sprinkle in carrot sticks, feeling a sense of satisfaction. You even cut the grapes lengthwise because that's a choking hazard we all missed until parenthood hit. And if you're feeling inspired (or unhinged?), you use the lunch-cutter-that-mangles to shape apple slices into something that vaguely resembles a star because lunch should now also be a creative arts project.
Dr Shefali calls it our "Look at me!" parenting moment (Oh, yes, that's me!), and I get it. We beam with pride when we close the lid on that lunch tin masterpiece. It's not just food. It's love. Effort. Nutrition. Worth. It's the silent scream of "I tried!" in a world that tells us to do more, be more, feed better.
And then… they come home.
Full.
Tin untouched, except for the oat bar. You know the one. Not particularly healthy, but it's your secret bribe. Your 'maybe she'll eat something' compromise. It's always the only thing missing: that, and your soul.
Suddenly, there's guilt. Failure. Self-doubt.
Did she eat anything today? Is this because I failed to introduce her to the colours of the rainbow when she was a baby? Was it too soggy? Too dry? Too carrot-shaped? What did I do wrong?
Then enters stage left: comparison.
The mum who sends seaweed wraps and hummus, infused with turmeric and probably the spirit of wellness itself. Her kid eats it all with gusto, accomplishment and complete gratitude. (No, I am not punching a fake doll in my head while writing this, I promise!) Meanwhile, I'm googling "how to get your kid to eat their lunch tin with ease?" at 10 pm like a desperate contestant on MasterChef: Mummy Edition. Who is in desperate need of this lunch tin to come back empty?
But here's what I'm learning.
The lunch tin isn't just a container of food. It's a mirror. Of our intentions. Our pressures. Our need to nourish, yes, but also to prove that we have 'done it', that we are good, that we are enough.
And here's the real kicker… what if it's also a projection?
What if the uneaten lunch tin isn't just a signal of their appetite, but a reflection of ours - our emotional appetite to feel seen, valued, and successful in this relentless job of raising small humans? And let's be honest, the real expense of that lunch makes our hard work and hard-earned money feel, well, worthless.
The deep-toned sneer of "you will eat it for dinner" has been thrown around many times, in an act of making said small human understand the cost of life and the expense of waste. She is 5… You can see how this is not going to help anyone but my ego, right?
Dr Shefali talks about the "parenting ego", how we attach our worth to our children's choices, behaviours, and in this case, lunch leftovers. That empty tin becomes a badge of success. A full one? A whisper of rejection.
And the problem isn't the lunch itself.
As Dr Shefali says, "Often it's the adjustment of our expectations, rather than reality itself, that's the hurdle we have to leap."
Because really, isn't this about more than food?
We do this everywhere. At work. In relationships. In our own goals.
We pour ourselves into the project, the meeting, the meal, the moment, and when it comes back "untouched" or unnoticed, we quietly make it mean something about us. About our value. Our effort. Our identity.
The lunch tin becomes a symbol of every place we've over-given and have been under-recognised.
The colleague who doesn't reply.
The extra hours at work.
The partner who doesn't notice.
The post that goes unread.
The silence that follows when we show up wholeheartedly.
So, the real question becomes, are we reacting to reality? Or to our unmet expectations of how they should receive it?
So maybe, instead of spiralling into self-worth audits over some slightly browning cucumber slices, we could ask:
Am I doing this to feel valued or to prove I'm valuable?
What am I making this mean about me?
Did I do this with expectations or with strings attached?
And my favourite question: Shall we have some fun?
Tomorrow's lunch tin gets the same oat bar and a sandwich in the shape of absolutely nothing, and we can remember that love, recognition, and self-worth are served in many forms, not just in alphabetised snack compartments.
And if all else fails, let's compare notes on our childhood lunches. Mine? Soggy tomato sandwiches. Mum loved them. I'm still gagging just thinking about that wet, collapsing bread. Jorge? He used to get the famous "veggie spread" from South Africa: questionable mayo-based mystery mash with surprise corn and carrots. 100% not healthy, 100% unforgettable.
So the lunch tin is just that, a moment. Not a measure. Not a report card. Just one more chance to laugh, to love, to pack a little presence in with the snacks.
And if the lunch still comes back untouched?
As Dr Shefali reminds us:
"It is what it is."
Meaning, we parent our children as our children are, not as we might wish them to be.
And let me add a Vikki note to that wonderful reminder to all my awesome humans out there that are not packing the literal school lunch! "It is what it is" - meaning, we live as we are, not as someone we think we should be.
With love (and several crushed veggie sticks),
Vikki x
