For most people, tomato soup is a comfort food. Warm. Cozy. Innocent. Something to eat when you’re sick, or cold, or pretending to be in a Campbell’s commercial. For me? Well, tomato soup is the villain in my personal food origin story.

I was little. I ate tomato soup once. Once. And promptly got sick. Was it really the tomato soup’s fault? Was it really a stomach virus? Was it really karmic payback for something I did in preschool? Who knows? All I know is that my little child brain made a permanent connection: tomato soup = betrayal. And I have avoided it with the same passion and intensity that I have avoided long division and the deep end of the pool.

And honestly, avoiding soup in general had become a personality trait. So, to be clear, I don’t like soup. I don’t trust soup. It’s like the food equivalent of a drink. It’s wet in a way that just feels unnecessary. So, when I say that I haven’t had any tomato soup since that fateful day, know that I mean it with the passion of someone who has been holding a grudge for decades.

But then, of course, came the column, my self-imposed task of confronting the foods I’ve avoided, dodged, or side-eyed over the years. And, sadly, tomato soup had been waiting for me, like the ex who suddenly comes back into your life and goes, “We need to talk.”

So, there I am, standing in my kitchen, facing off against the bowl of tomato soup like it’s some sort of court summons. The soup’s color, for one, was terrifying. A bold, unapologetic red. The kind of red that goes, “I know what you remember, and I’m not sorry.”

I took a deep breath. I picked up my spoon. I told myself that I was an adult, after all. I was ready for taxes, parking, and reading the ingredient list on the soup can. I was ready for soup.

The first taste was… confusing. Yes, it was warm. Yes, it was tomatoey. But was it also sweet? A little sweet? A little tangy? A little something I should be dipping a grilled cheese into? Except I had stupidly decided to do this without backup.

My brain went into overdrive trying to figure out what it was and whether it was friend or foe. And then, amazingly, something clicked. I didn’t hate it. I didn’t love it, let’s not get crazy here, but I didn’t hate it. I didn’t feel betrayed. I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t feel like calling my father and having him come save me. I took another bite. Another bite. And gradually, the fear began to let go. Maybe soup wasn’t the monster I thought it was. Maybe tomato soup wasn’t the monster I thought it was.

Maybe—just maybe—what I had been holding onto for all these years wasn’t trauma so much as trauma’s cousin: One Unfortunate Tuesday.

Did this experience make me a soup person? Absolutely not. I am not about to start discussing bisques or broth depth, and whether I think they are good or bad, and auditioning for “Top Chef.” What it did do, though, was open a door that I had shut and bolted for many years. It made me realize that sometimes our fears are outdated, our memories exaggerated, and our taste buds more forgiving than we think.

This column is not about becoming a foodie. It is about becoming someone who tries. Someone who lets go. Someone who occasionally eats something that sloshes.