I distinctly remember being a small child, sitting at the dinner table and staring down at a plate of vegetables. Unlike many parents, mine had never demanded that I finish my meals before getting up from the table. They were too familiar with the consequences of that strategy to try it.

But this time, I ate the vegetables voluntarily. I was trying to be a good kid.

I promptly threw up, confirming the reason no one had made any strenuous efforts to introduce vegetables into my regular diet.

Plenty of little kids detest vegetables, even if not all of them have such visceral physical reactions to ingesting them. Most, however, grow out of it.

I have not. In my favorite college dining hall, there is an extensive salad bar. The only item I’ve ever consumed from it? Hard-boiled eggs. The rest, a colorful display of vegetables, nuts, and dressings, I watch enviously.

I wish I could put any of that in my mouth without gagging.

Being a picky eater comes with a certain level of shame. I’m forever fumbling through explanations of my preferences and trying to laugh along with whatever judgmental or ignorant responses come next. (On that note, I promise you won’t find a loophole when I tell you I eat zero vegetables. Not even if you list every single vegetable you’ve ever heard of. Yes, even carrots. Even corn. I meant what I said originally: zero vegetables.)

Eating at restaurants is a headache, especially if it’s with people who don’t know me very well—or worse, people to whom I’m trying to appear sophisticated, or at least mature. And eating at people’s homes is worse: Will I look rude if my plate is virtually empty?

Asking dining hall workers to serve me some but not all of the food offered at their stations is always awkward; I pray I won’t face an over-friendly server who cracks a joke about the nutritional value I’m missing. Even the quieter ones usually look me over and, with varying degrees of skepticism, confirm that I want pasta but not brussel sprouts, beef but not asparagus, tacos with meat and cheese but no lettuce or salsa.

Speaking of lettuce and salsa, ordering at assembly-line chains like Subway and Chipotle is a similar minefield of well-intentioned workers who either laugh at my minimalist preferences or question them. It’s embarrassing enough to order the bare-bones sandwich or taco without having to joke about my embarrassment afterwards.

Overall, I dread attending events with food, because I have to worry beforehand about whether I will go home hungry—and potentially chastised for my lack of flexibility.

I fully understand that my dietary issues pale in comparison to the struggles of people with allergies and religious restrictions, and those recovering from eating disorders, for whom eating in public is even more challenging.

And yet, I wonder why I endure more stigma than them. My situation is easier, and it’s infinitely more possible to power through if necessary. But it’s not more arbitrary. Different people have different taste buds—and mine are unusually quick to sound the “this might be poison” alarm. What tastes delicious or at least tolerable to the masses tastes disgusting to me. It’s not a choice; it’s an automatic sensory reaction.

But being a picky eater is still treated as a mark of childishness. Of being difficult. Even entitled. “Sorry, I don’t like it” is never a legitimate excuse; it’s always the beginning of a negotiation or an eye roll. If picky eaters would just try harder, these reactions imply, we would not be picky anymore.

Trust me, I understand I’ve probably inconvenienced or exasperated you if you’ve ever had to dine with me. But it’s plenty inconvenient for me, too. And on top of worrying about whether I will be able to enjoy eating, I’m worrying about inconveniencing you.

I assure you, if I could snap my fingers and rewire my gustatory system, I would. No questions asked.

But I can’t.

If an occasion involving food is really that important to you, I will eat what you offer and try to keep it down while maintaining a pleasant smile. If it’s not important, though, what do the contents of my plate matter?

Please let me be picky in peace.