There is a particular kind of silence that settles in after a long day of academic work. It is not a peaceful silence but rather the low hum of a laptop fan cooling an overworked processor, the faint echo of the day’s final Zoom call, and the weight of a dozen tasks that are still on the mind. My world, like for many others, is one of student inquiries, developing the next grant proposal, content preparation, the endless pursuit of publications, and constantly managing competing priorities. Academia today is incredibly demanding and can lead to burnout and mental ill health. As many readers will be aware, researchers have called for more attention to the unhealthy work environment in academia for years, even before the pandemic exacerbated our collective sense of isolation.   

For me, these universal academic pressures have been compounded by the experience of being a migrant woman scholar in Australia. I have often felt that I have been building a career in a system not originally designed for someone with my background, and that comes with its own set of invisible challenges. There was the subtle but constant work of cultural translation, navigating the politics of career progression and visa regulations, coping with a lack of inherited social capital and confronting patriarchal views from my personal life. I also had an aching distance from family which was felt even more on quieter evenings and missing of celebrations. My professional life has been fulfilling, but there was a period where my well-being was fraying at the edges.

Then, I found another kind of silence. Not to be too poetic, but those who have sat across my kitchen island would understand – it began with the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a knife on a wooden board – it grew with the gentle sizzle of cumin seeds hitting hot oil, releasing their earthy fragrance and it was enveloped in the Bollywood music that I play in the background and sometimes dance to. It was the silence of total focus, of hands engaged in a task so tangible, so sensory, that the deadlines and anxieties couldn’t distract me. I found a sanctuary, not in a yoga studio or a meditation app, but in my own kitchen. In this blog, I’ll share my journey and explain how cooking has become a central part of maintaining my wellbeing—and a source of continuing joy—while working in higher education.

From Research to Reflection: Understanding My Own Experience

How have I come to understand the importance of cooking in my life? Well, this journey of reflection did not happen in a vacuum. Professionally, I was already immersed in the topic of leader well-being, leading a research project that explored this very concept among social purpose organisations. I was spending my days examining how others found balance and purpose in high-pressure environments. When a call for book chapters on academic wellbeing was announced, it felt like a moment of serendipity. It presented a formal opportunity to turn the lens inward, to apply the same rigour of inquiry to my own life that I was applying to my research participants. More than just an academic exercise, it felt like an invitation to find my own voice on a subject that was not just professional, but deeply personal.

Through writing the book chapter, I discovered that my turn towards the kitchen was more than just a hobby and it was here that a seemingly ordinary activity, making food, became an extraordinary act of self-preservation and joy. Cooking the food of my heritage – the dals, the slow-cooked curries, the fresh rotis I grew up with and learning new cuisines from friends and TV shows, became an act of reclamation and embracing my new life. My kitchen became a space where I could honour the recipes of my past while creating new traditions in my adopted home. It was my way of pushing back against the feeling of dislocation, of creating a corner of the world that was unequivocally mine and in turn became a catalyst for connection.

How Cooking Fosters My Wellbeing

For many people, cooking is something that they need to do, either for themselves or their family, and it isn’t necessarily something they enjoy. It’s important to point out that this used to be my experience too! In the past, cooking was another chore on an endless to-do list, one more thing that I needed to do after a long day at work.

However, as time passed, I realised that the act of cooking had changed for me. I had started to lean into it, not as a task, but as an act of ‘making’. The shift wasn’t overnight, but rather a slow realisation born out of necessity when the intensive period of working from home, possibly during COVID19 blurred every boundary. I felt I needed a concrete ‘hard stop’ to the academic workday, and the kitchen provided it. This transformation happened when I began using that time as a non-negotiable, work-free zone. More importantly, this deliberate practice allowed me to reclaim my agency, realising that preparing wholesome nutritious meals was a powerful, tangible way to control my health and energy, a simple wisdom my grandmother understood so well!

That is, I soon realised that this simple act was nourishing me in ways that went far beyond basic sustenance. I began to see how the process of home cooking was fostering my well-being through five distinct, yet interconnected, elements that I explore in the afore-mentioned book chapter: the experience of positive emotion, the deep engagement in the task itself, the strengthening of relationships, the cultivation of meaning, and the quiet satisfaction of achievement.

Just as a complex recipe requires a harmonious blend of ingredients to succeed, I found that my time in the kitchen was helping me cultivate a more balanced and resilient inner life. Also, while there was an undeniable pride in mastering a complex dish or in receiving heartfelt acknowledgement from friends you’ve cooked for, the failures such as burnt dishes and lumpy curries were as important. I found that the kitchen, however, provided a safe space to practice failure, something that I could take to my professional world. As you would understand, in academia, failure can feel catastrophic. A rejected paper or a harsh review can trigger intense feelings of inadequacy. Comparatively, a culinary mishap is low-stakes. It’s a lesson in what not to do next time, and more often than not, it becomes a funny story to share. Learning to handle a burnt dish with grace and humour has been a powerful lesson in resilience. It has taught me to decouple failure from my self-worth, building the emotional muscle I need to navigate the inevitable setbacks of an academic career with greater perspective and patience. I have also learnt that while academia can be a siloed and hierarchical profession, sharing fresh produce from a garden or bringing a container of homemade food to share is a gesture that transcends titles and departments!

Beyond this, the kitchen also offers something deeper: a state of complete immersion, what psychologists call flow. When I cook, the world outside falls away. My entire focus is on the task at hand as despite practice and familiarity with recipes, the food making process demands planning, perception, and physical coordination. This quietens the ruminating part of my brain and enables my return to academic work with renewed energy and focus.   

Conclusion

I know that for many of us in academia, time is the scarcest resource. The pressure to be constantly productive while balancing personal lives can make taking time for such activities feel like an indulgence we cannot afford. But the practice of cooking has made me more conscious of my well-being, not as an abstract goal, but as a series of small, deliberate choices. Carving out this time, even when it felt difficult, was the first step and that small act of prioritising my own self prompted further action. It gave me the confidence to move beyond just one activity and embrace a more holistic approach to my life.

This journey, which started with cooking, has now led me to explore other dimensions of well-being, including nutritionally and spiritually. It has taught me that nourishing myself is not a distraction from my academic work, but a prerequisite for it. I am still learning and look forward to this new path of integrating all aspects of my well-being.

I hope my story has offered some food for thought. Before you go, I invite you to take a few minutes to think about the activities that are extraordinary for you and help you feel grounded and focused. Where do you find your sanctuary?  And how do the moments you spend there help you to thrive, not just survive, in your academic life?

Dr. Aastha Malhotra is a Senior Lecturer and Higher Degree Research Coordinator at the University of Southern Queensland (UniSQ). She is passionate about supporting social purpose organisations through management and leadership and has also directed her work to address systemic barriers faced by migrant and refugee communities, through social enterprise. As a migrant woman in academia, this work is complemented by her research into reflective practice and well-being. When not researching or teaching, she can be found in her kitchen experimenting with spices or walking her dog.

This blog is kindly sponsored by G-Research.