Sofia Vaselina, 32, sits cross-legged on the floor of her sun-drenched kitchen, swirls of patchouli-scented smoke escaping from a nearby antique censer. It’s a warm summer day, light cutting in from the silhouettes of the nearby mountains. Her apartment is on the third floor of a reclaimed general store outfitted with gray PVC flooring and sliding barn doors. It’s from this sacred space—her inner sanctum, her office-slash-kitchen-slash-shrine—that she teaches culinary classes, life-coaching intensives, and Theravada Buddhism, all on a sliding scale (but only for the right kind of suffering). A breeze drifts in through the open window, gently swaying the Tibetan prayer flags and indoor wind chimes. And in the center of it all is Sofia—sans-bra, in flax-colored linen pants, covered in bold, geometric tattoos, speaking in a measured cadence that wobbles only slightly when she mentions her ex-boyfriend’s “shitty fucking Corolla.”
There is the atmosphere of calm and introspection, the particular flavor that Sofia has become known for in her town. Since moving only months ago, she’s already one of the most talked about chefs, healers, wine connoisseurs, DJs, certified erotic breathwork facilitators, and Raya users of the Rocky Mountain Metropolitan Area. She also writes a weekly Substack newsletter called If You Don’t Eat This Way You Want to Die (IYDETWYWTD), where she shares long-form meditations on topics like emotional boundaries, open-air barbecuing, and the racial politics of saffron. (“It’s not appropriation, it’s assimilation,” she clarified in a recent post titled What My Bone Broth Taught Me About Dismantling Normativity, followed by Grief Tapenade: How I Healed My Gut and My Inner Child in the Same Afternoon.)
And while Sofia may have an aura of stillness about her, it comes from a life of learning how to find it. She was born on the war-torn cobblestones of Minsk—at least, that’s how she tells it—before her family emigrated to what she describes as the “Gaza Strip of Michigan.” It was there she learned how to “code-switch” and, in her words, “when I see the police, warn a brotha.” Her time afterwards, spent growing up in the suburbs, exposed her to the wealth and riches she only dreamed of as an unborn child in Belarus.
She stirs the freshly-prepared chai in her tea cup with a spoon made from ethically sourced horn. “I’ve been told by an actual Gujarati Indian person that my recipe is as authentic as it gets.”
As she pours me a cup into a handmade ceramic mug labeled Male Tears, Sofia glances at her phone, which she’s placed face-down on the windowsill beside a burning bundle of sage and mugwort.
“I’m not checking,” she says quickly. “It’s just…muscle memory. Neural pathways I’m rewiring.” She flips it over with a practiced flick, her thumb swiping upwards to check any notifications. She nods.
“Okay. He hasn’t texted yet,” she says, with the strained cheerfulness of someone making a snuff film. “Which is good. It’s good. I feel really…liberated. Like everything’s really coming together for me.”
She drops the phone on the gray floor with a resounding slam.
“I just think it’s interesting,” she adds, voice tightening, “how men say they want emotionally present women but then when you actually express a need, it’s like suddenly you’re some kind of fucking emotional terrorist.”
There is the atmosphere of calm and introspection, the particular flavor that Sofia has become known for in her town. Since moving only months ago, she’s already one of the most talked about chefs, healers, wine connoisseurs, DJs, certified erotic breathwork facilitators, and Raya users of the Rocky Mountain Metropolitan Area. She also writes a weekly Substack newsletter called If You Don’t Eat This Way You Want to Die (IYDETWYWTD), where she shares long-form meditations on topics like emotional boundaries, open-air barbecuing, and the racial politics of saffron. (“It’s not appropriation, it’s assimilation,” she clarified in a recent post titled What My Bone Broth Taught Me About Dismantling Normativity, followed by Grief Tapenade: How I Healed My Gut and My Inner Child in the Same Afternoon.)
And while Sofia may have an aura of stillness about her, it comes from a life of learning how to find it. She was born on the war-torn cobblestones of Minsk—at least, that’s how she tells it—before her family emigrated to what she describes as the “Gaza Strip of Michigan.” It was there she learned how to “code-switch” and, in her words, “when I see the police, warn a brotha.” Her time afterwards, spent growing up in the suburbs, exposed her to the wealth and riches she only dreamed of as an unborn child in Belarus.
She stirs the freshly-prepared chai in her tea cup with a spoon made from ethically sourced horn. “I’ve been told by an actual Gujarati Indian person that my recipe is as authentic as it gets.”
As she pours me a cup into a handmade ceramic mug labeled Male Tears, Sofia glances at her phone, which she’s placed face-down on the windowsill beside a burning bundle of sage and mugwort.
“I’m not checking,” she says quickly. “It’s just…muscle memory. Neural pathways I’m rewiring.” She flips it over with a practiced flick, her thumb swiping upwards to check any notifications. She nods.
“Okay. He hasn’t texted yet,” she says, with the strained cheerfulness of someone making a snuff film. “Which is good. It’s good. I feel really…liberated. Like everything’s really coming together for me.”
She drops the phone on the gray floor with a resounding slam.
“I just think it’s interesting,” she adds, voice tightening, “how men say they want emotionally present women but then when you actually express a need, it’s like suddenly you’re some kind of fucking emotional terrorist.”
Wind chimes jingle behind her. A crystal suncatcher sends prisms of light across the room.
“I’m actually thriving,” she continues. “I journaled for forty minutes this morning about the illusion of romantic validation. You know what I realized? He’s a coward. A fucking coward. And he ghosted me. Me. Do you know what I look like? I don’t get ghosted—I’m the ghost.”
She’s picked up the mug and takes a long sip, eyes locked on the middle distance like a sniper who just made peace with God.
Moments like this pepper the conversation. Her speaking voice, typically slow and practiced—almost ASMR-adjacent—picks up speed when she’s recalling injustices.
The restaurant that under-seasoned her scallops.
The friend who “found inspiration” in her turmeric poem and posted it on IG without credit.
The sommelier who “wouldn’t stop asking me about my credentials during a wine tasting I was literally leading.”
“I’m really prioritizing peace lately,” she says later, grinding fennel seeds in a mortar and pestle she got from a woman in Crested Butte who “doesn’t believe in time.”
Those who follow Sofia’s online presence closely, whether through her longform essays, recipes, or “stability sessions,” may have stumbled upon the hidden gem that is her Instagram. She keeps it private, she says, because although it promotes her business, she wants to be “intentional about the energy she lets in.”
It’s there you’ll find her best posts, usually in ephemeral story-form. That’s how Sofia’s mind works: “Always up, always go, always yes. Never stopping.” Day-to-day, she shares her tattoos, mimosas, midday cocktails, dessert, photos from bars with friends, and her bedtime wine. A peek into the life of a woman who seems perfect, but will possibly commit a crime if you’ve wronged her.
“And here’s a screenshot of my text where I told my friend I hope my ex’s apartment blows up in a fire caused by a gas leak caused by a Molotov.”
She chuckles, shrugs, and adjusts the crystal necklace resting against her sternum. “Just girly things.”
As our interview winds down, Sofia strikes a match against a photo of her ex and uses it to light an Anthropologie candle labeled Strong Independent Woman.
“I’m being very chill about this,” she whispers, staring directly into the flame. Then she looks up at me. “Besides, there are like ten other guys in this neighborhood who wanna fuck me.”
Next month, Sofia is preparing to host a $50-a-plate fundraiser in her backyard, featuring “trauma-integrated hors d’oeuvres,” a ceremonial mushroom broth, and garlicky miso gochujang brown butter gnocchi. The proceeds will go to local businesses, farmstands, the farmer’s market, Farm Aid, and supplement scholarships for Sofia’s wellness and culinary classes. For more information, request a follow at her Instagram, @IfYouDontEatThisWayYouWanttoDie or check out her Substack publication of the same name.
Posted on June 21, 2025
