I didn’t go vegan on a whim. Like many, I arrived at it slowly—through documentaries, late-night internet rabbit holes, and a few too many meals that left me feeling heavy in body and heart. At first, it felt like a revelation. I was cooking more. Thinking more. Feeling more connected to the choices I made.

But then the fatigue set in—not just physical, but emotional. The kind that sneaks up on you in the checkout line, in conversations with friends, in the fridge at 9:30 PM when all you want is something “normal.” Over the years, I’ve nearly quit being vegan more than once.

Here are five of those moments—and the one truth that kept me from giving up for good.

There’s a special kind of awkward that comes from being that person at dinner. The one who asks about the dressing. Who brings their own dish “just in case.” Who watches the server’s face tighten when they mention substitutions.

I used to tell myself I didn’t mind. But honestly? It wore me down.

Potlucks became puzzles. Weddings meant side salads. Even close friends would say, “I didn’t know what to make for you, so I just didn’t cook.” That stung.

I stopped apologizing. I started offering. I’d bring dishes to share—not just for me, but for everyone. And I started giving hosts a heads-up with an upbeat, no-pressure tone: “Happy to bring something—would a vegan main help round out the spread?” Framing it as contribution, not restriction, shifted the energy entirely.

In my early vegan days, I lived off hummus wraps, frozen veggie burgers, and oat milk lattes. I wasn’t unhealthy—but I also wasn’t thriving.

I’d crash in the afternoons. I’d wake up groggy. I’d sneak spoonfuls of peanut butter at midnight and still feel hungry. I chalked it up to stress or a bad week.

But after a conversation with a friend who’s a dietitian, I realized: I wasn’t eating enough calories—or enough variety. Where I once leaned on two or three staples, I started building balanced plates: whole grains, legumes, leafy greens, colorful veggies, healthy fats.

Batch cooking three components each week (one grain, one bean/lentil, one sauce) made throwing meals together easy. And I gave myself permission to snack more—on fruit, trail mix, roasted chickpeas, smoothies. Energy came back. So did motivation.

My family’s traditions are rich with butter, broth, and barbecue. Holidays meant tamales, menudo, tres leches. Going vegan felt like erasing the very things that made me feel rooted.

I tried to recreate them, but my early attempts were... let’s say, texturally confusing.

Eventually, I just avoided those foods altogether. But that avoidance felt like loss.

I stopped chasing “perfect” replicas and focused on flavor memories: smoky, spicy, savory. I learned to use umami-rich ingredients—miso, mushrooms, smoked paprika, toasted seeds. I worked with my mom to veganize her enchiladas. It wasn’t just about the food—it was about reclaiming tradition in a new form.

I’d scroll through Instagram and see zero-waste jars, ethically sourced ingredients, homegrown kale. Meanwhile, I had plastic-wrapped tofu and wilted spinach.

The pressure to “do veganism right”—organic, local, composted—was crushing. One slip-up and I’d spiral into guilt. If I couldn’t do everything right, was it even worth it?

I remembered why I started. Not to win purity points, but to align my choices with my values. Perfection isn’t the goal—progress is. I gave myself grace. If I forgot my reusable bags, I just tried again the next day. Small acts count. Even imperfect ones.

Veganism can be lonely, especially if your immediate circle doesn’t share it. I missed the camaraderie of shared meals, spontaneous food runs, swapping bites off a plate.

Worse, I sometimes felt judged—either as “too extreme” or “not vegan enough.” It’s a weird in-between space.

I found new pockets of community—at farmers’ markets, cooking classes, local vegan meetups. I followed creators who reflected my version of plant-based living: joyful, flexible, culture-rich. Over time, veganism felt less like a solo mission and more like shared momentum.

Yes, veganism benefits me—my health, my energy, my creativity in the kitchen. But at the end of the day, I stay for something bigger than myself.

I stay for the animals who can’t speak but feel pain.
For the forests cleared for livestock.
For the water used to grow feed instead of food.
For future kids who deserve a livable planet.

When I zoom out and reconnect with that, the hard days feel less hard. The inconveniences become trade-offs I’m willing to make.

Because the truth is: most of us don’t need to be perfect vegans. We just need to be persistent ones.

If you’ve ever felt like quitting, you’re not alone. But maybe—just maybe—the very thing that makes it hard is the same thing that makes it meaningful.

Keep going. Your version of veganism is allowed to evolve.

Even mine still is.