Cooking with Scars: Finding Strength, Self, and a Place to Belong

Have you ever had that sense—or that need—to belong to something? Isn’t it just human nature to crave community?

By definition, belongingness is a fundamental human need: to feel accepted, valued, appreciated, and to be a vital part of something bigger than yourself. It’s a psychological concept that reflects our perception of social support and acceptance. Belonging is tied to social identity—a set of shared beliefs, values, and purpose.

I’ve always said that being a chef… our industry is different. We work long hours. We thrive in chaos. We work hard, and play even harder.

The amount of stress we’re under sometimes boggles even my mind. We juggle home life, menu development, employee growth, recipe creation, inventory, ordering, logistics, food costs, catering events, employee drama, food inspections, fire inspections, guest complaints, salespeople, receiving, kitchen maintenance, scheduling—and that’s just Monday.

And through all of that, we’re expected to maintain an image. A consistency. A presence. In a world where someone can throw up a video, get a million views, and suddenly call themselves a “chef” or “foodie,” those of us on the line carry a different kind of weight.

We have this bravado—the kind where the four letters C-H-E-F used to mean something. Some of us still hold that title with honor and commitment, and we’ll say or do anything to protect it. Those of us who still work a position on the line deserve that respect.

Marco Pierre White once told a friend of mine, “Always keep a foot in the kitchen, chef.”

What does that mean? It means: never lose sight of why you went through all the blood, sweat, burns, and bruises to earn that title. You deserve that respect.

I never looked at myself as a “great” chef. I never thought I could change the way this industry is perceived. I sure as hell never saw myself as a “celebrity” chef—nor will I ever.

Truth is, I never believed in myself.

That damn tape in my head was always on loop: “You’re not that good.”

That self-doubt—about who I was as a person and as a chef—has held me back from my true potential. My confidence level? Nowhere near what my experience level is. I always lacked that sense of community. That sense of belonging.

Coming up through the ranks, I got beat down constantly. Made to feel like I didn’t matter.

“Move faster. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I remember one night at Brio in West Palm Beach. Chef Boyd (what a fucking prick) was running the show. Both of our grill cooks called out. Saturday night. I had to jump on the line.

Chef kept yelling, “How long on this table?!”

I shouted back, “Two minutes, Chef!”

He snapped, “It’s been twenty-two minutes! I need that NOW!”

I said, “I’m doing the best I can, Chef!”

He came back with, “I guess your best isn’t good enough!”

Man, I wanted to walk out right then and there.

The rush ended. Tickets were cleared. Chef was getting ready to leave. As I was cleaning down my station, he mumbled, “I’d never be able to keep up like you did tonight. Amazing job, Chef.”

My blood boiled.

You spent the entire night tearing me down—in front of guests, in front of my crew—and now you have the nerve to whisper praise?

I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I’m sorry—can you repeat that, but louder this time so my staff can hear it?”

I turned in my resignation soon after.

Because how can you work for someone who doesn’t lift people up? Who doesn’t promote a sense of community? Of respect?

I never truly felt like I belonged in this industry—until now.

It’s been a long fucking journey. Over thirty years.

But now, I’m no longer afraid of what I can do. Because what I do comes from my soul. From my heart. I make craveable food—and I will never fucking apologize for that.

I know what weakness are. But today? I’ve got support. I’ve got a community.

I’m open to help now. I don’t look at it as a dig at my flavor profiles. Some folks just don’t get my flavors—hell, some don’t even have the palate. And that’s okay.

I still overthink dishes sometimes. That inner voice kicks in:(that would be my community)

“Strip it down until you break the dish.”

“Keep it simple. Move with purpose.”

But now, I know—I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

Not even myself.

My experience and my palate lead me.

My community says, “Tell me why. Why this ingredient? Why this method?”

And I listen.

I learn. I teach. I share the wisdom wrapped in every one of these gray hairs. (Wisdom whiskers, baby.)

The only way for all of us to grow—not just as chefs but as passionate, purpose-driven humans—is to keep our minds open. To learn from each other. To teach each other.

Travel helps me do that. It plugs me back into my community. It recharges me. It shows me new flavor paths I wouldn’t discover if I just stayed still and existed.

So to my family, my friends, and my community—thank you.

You’ve given me something I chased for decades: a sense of belonging.

And I can never repay you in this life.

But I can help you grow—through my experience, through my strength, and yeah, through my scars.

Together?

We’re fucking unstoppable.