ARFID isn’t just “picky eating”.

There’s a new diagnosis in our world: ARFID.

Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder.

ARFID is an eating disorder that involves limited food intake due to sensory sensitivities, lack of interest in eating, or fear of negative consequences like choking or vomiting. Unlike other eating disorders, it has nothing to do with body image or weight. It’s driven by fear, discomfort, and safety—not choice.

Another word to learn.

Another layer to understand.

Another reminder that for our family, even the most basic things—like eating—can be incredibly hard.

For J, eating has never been simple. But over the last couple of years, it has become one of our biggest daily struggles.

Meals aren’t just meals.

They’re anxiety.

They’re pressure.

They’re stressful.

For both of us.

ARFID isn’t about being stubborn or refusing to try new foods. It’s not a phase. It’s not something a sticker chart or “just one bite” can fix. It’s a genuine fear and discomfort around food—textures, smells, appearance, and sometimes even the act of swallowing itself.

Foods that feel safe one day can suddenly feel impossible the next.

And as his mom, that’s heartbreaking.

Because I want to nourish him.

I want to see him grow.

I want to stop worrying about calories, vitamins, and whether he’s getting “enough.”

But instead, eating often feels impossible—and if I’m being honest, I usually dread feeding my child.

ARFID is still a relatively new diagnosis in the medical world. It wasn’t officially recognized until 2013. Unless you’re in the neurodiverse or feeding-therapy space, most people have never even heard of it.

I was an extremely picky eater until I was about 13 years old—long before ARFID existed as a diagnosis. Looking back, I fully believe I had ARFID as a child.

Another important thing about ARFID is that it’s highly hereditary. Around 79–80% of the risk is attributed to genetic factors. So it wasn’t exactly shocking when one of my boys was diagnosed. Honestly, I find myself watching and waiting with my younger one, too.

While ARFID is more common in neurodiverse individuals, you don’t have to be neurodiverse to have it.

Some days, a few bites feel like a huge win. Other days, plates come back untouched and I have to fight the panic that creeps in. I’m constantly balancing encouragement without pressure—trying to support him without making food feel even scarier than it already is.

What makes ARFID especially hard is how invisible it can be.

From the outside, it can look like “he just won’t eat” or “he’s being a brat.”

From the inside, it’s a child whose brain and body are screaming, this isn’t safe.

And that changes everything.

It’s not as simple as “he’ll eat when he’s hungry” or “make him sit there until he eats.” ARFID is a mental health condition. You cannot force someone with ARFID to eat.

Honestly, I don’t believe you can—or should—force anyone to eat something they don’t want to eat. I’m an adult and wouldn’t tolerate that, so why would I expect my child to? Autistic or not.

We’re learning that progress doesn’t look like clean plates. It looks like familiarity. Feeling safe at the table. Sometimes it looks like simply showing up with no expectations at all. Sometimes it’s as small as touching a new food or allowing it to exist in his space.

This diagnosis doesn’t define J.

But it helps explain him.

It explains why I buy safe foods by the pallet (exaggeration… but IYKYK).

It explains why I make multiple meals—despite being told not to be a “short-order cook.” I choose comfort and safety for my children. Take that however you want.

I will never force my kids to eat something they don’t want or don’t like just because “that’s how it was done back in the day.”

So for now, we’re taking it one meal at a time.

One safe food at a time.

One deep breath at a time.

If feeding your child feels overwhelming, emotional, or isolating—please know you’re not alone. ARFID is real. The struggle is real. And so is the love behind every single bite you try to offer.

And to those who say their kids “eat everything” because they “exposed them to everything”—don’t take it personally, but those kids are unicorns. You just don’t come across them often.

For families like ours, eating is hard.

And if our kids go back to their safe foods, that is okay.

Tomorrow, we can try again.