I knew that I was just barely keeping it together when my voice cracked in a work meeting. I had scurried in late again, frenzied from a tough daycare dropoff, followed by a surprise snowstorm during the morning commute. I sat in that dimly lit conference room in my stretched-out cardigan and maternity pants that weren’t ready to give me up just yet and tried to shake it off.

Until that month, I’d always thought of myself as a go-getter. I was good at my job, and I knew it. I liked being the one that everyone could count on, even if it meant staying late most nights or taking on more and more responsibilities when I was already overwhelmed.

But the month I came back from maternity leave, I felt like a ghost of that person. I didn’t stay late, mostly because I had to make it to daycare on time, but also because it didn’t matter anymore. Everything I had taken so much pride in just fell flat. I had changed but I wasn’t ready to accept it yet.

And so I did what I’d always done when things weren’t going my way. I tried harder, pushed harder, and most of all, treated myself harder. I made calls and wrote emails while I pumped. I said yes to new projects when I knew I’d already be up late trying to catch up on grad school homework. I went all in because it felt like the only way.

And that’s when I found myself sitting in an ordinary meeting, watching the clock to make sure I’d have time to pump before the clinic opened when things changed for me. As we were about to finish up, I was told that I’d be taking on a drastic amount of new work, in addition to the full-time role I was already drowning in. I opened my mouth to speak up but found my voice cracking, my hands shaking. I simply nodded and went back to my office.

This feels like a lot of backstory for a listicle about meal train recipes but I just wanted to convey how low I was at that moment. I’d been pushing myself past my limit for a long time, only to find that it still wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t enough.

And that’s when a dear friend popped her head into my office and asked how I was doing. I tearfully told her that I was failing at everything, and it seemed like no one even noticed or cared. It would have been easy for her to tell me that things would get better or that I just had to give it time. Instead, she fed me.

From that day on, this friend started bringing me food. Each time she made dinner for her family, she’d make a double batch, box up the extras, and slip them into the work fridge with a post-it note for me.

Normally I would have at least put up a fight, insisted that I was fine and she didn’t need to go to the trouble. But I was not fine, and maybe I was even worth the trouble. Maybe you are too.

The truth is, feeding one another is a big deal. It doesn’t sound important or extraordinary. Maybe that’s because work traditionally done by women is often dismissed. But a homemade meal can change someone. It did for me.

“Accepting a meal from a friend is a vulnerable act. ”

We don’t usually bring meals to each other on regular Tuesdays. We bring them at our most vulnerable times in life: a new baby, a dying parent, a surprise diagnosis. We let ourselves be seen fully as we are, and no one is pretending to be fine.

I guess what I’m saying is that it matters. Every time you throw together a simple pot of spaghetti and meatballs or send a Starbucks e-card, it matters. It’s this deeply human thing that we can so easily write off, nourishing and being fed by one another.

So next time you feel the nudge to drop off dinner or have a crazy amount of leftovers hanging around, don’t second-guess it. You have no idea how much your generosity will mean to someone who’s in the thick of it right now. Here are a few of my favorite meals to pass along.