Why I Avoid the Kitchen at Night (An HMO Diary Entry)

I haven't been in my kitchen at night for nearly three years. Not once. Not to make tea. Not to get water. Not to grab a snack. The kitchen, after dark, is off-limits. 

I live in a shared house. A six-bedroom HMO. I share the kitchen with other people—people I didn't choose, people whose rhythms are not my own. And at night, the kitchen feels different. It becomes a space I can't quite access, not because anyone has told me I can't, but because the thought of navigating it—of the small talk, the silent nods, the performance of being fine—is too much. The kitchen after dark belongs to whoever is in it, and I don't have the energy to negotiate my place in it. So I stay in my room. Door locked. Water bottle filled from the bathroom sink. It's not ideal, but it's what I need to do to protect my peace.

So I adapted. I keep snacks in my drawer. I keep a water bottle by my bed. I plan ahead. I've turned my rented room into a tiny, self-contained survival pod. It's not ideal. I miss being able to make tea at midnight without a strategic military operation. But it's what I need to do to protect my nervous system.

This is the part of anxiety no one talks about. It's not just the panic attacks. It's the logistics. The constant calculations. Who's in the kitchen? What time is it? Can I risk it? Do I have enough water to last until morning? Is it worth the encounter? The answer, almost always, is no. The cost of the interaction—the small talk, the performance, the drain on my already-depleted social battery—outweighs the benefit of whatever I might get from the kitchen. So I stay in my room. Door locked. Self-contained.

I've been judged for this. People have said "that's not healthy" or "you're letting the anxiety win." And maybe they're right. Maybe I am letting the anxiety shrink my world. But I've also learned that sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is accommodate your own needs. Not fight them. Not push through. Just... adapt.

My world has shrunk in some ways. I don't use the kitchen at night. I don't linger in shared spaces. I retreat to my room earlier than I might otherwise. But my world has also expanded in other ways. I've built a sanctuary. A space that's entirely mine, where I control the sensory environment, where no one can enter without my permission. That sanctuary has given me the safety I need to do other hard things. To build a website. To write. To show up for myself in ways I couldn't when I was constantly bracing for the next encounter.

The kitchen blackout isn't forever. Maybe one day I'll feel brave enough to make tea at midnight again. Maybe I'll move somewhere with my own kitchen, and the whole problem will disappear. But for now, this is how I survive. A locked door. A water bottle. A small, deliberate boundary that protects my peace.

If you have your own version of the kitchen blackout—a place you avoid, a situation you navigate around, a boundary that looks like avoidance but feels like survival—I see you. You're not weak. You're not letting the anxiety win. You're making a calculated decision about what you can handle and what you can't. That's not failure. That's wisdom.

Sometimes survival looks like pushing through. Sometimes it looks like staying in your room with a locked door and a water bottle filled from the bathroom sink. Both are valid. Both are brave. Do what you need to do to get through the night.

Anxiously Ever After is written by me, Jennie, a 50-something-year-old woman who hasn't used the kitchen at night in nearly three years. I keep snacks in her drawer and a water bottle by my bed. I'm surviving. That's enough.