I cook because people need to eat — where did the joy go?

I once made tea only for myself, slow, watching the steam curl. My neighbor smelled it and came in. Then his cousin. Within a month my house was the street's teahouse, and I was still making tea, but I'd stopped tasting it. Nobody stole my tea. I gave it away one cup at a time and didn't notice when giving turned into working. This is what happened to your cooking. The activity didn't change. What changed is what it's for. When cooking was yours, every choice was a taste. Now every choice is a task: feed them, feed them again, feed them on time. That's not a character flaw. It's what happens when nobody in the house — including you — remembers to ask if you still want to. If this flatness has spread past the kitchen, into everything you used to enjoy, it may be worth saying so to someone outside your own head — a friend, a doctor, anyone who isn't waiting to be fed by you.