From trauma to nourishment: how one woman built a food movement

Ali Casparian was supposed to become a chef. As a child in her Armenian grandmother's kitchen and grandfather's garden, she found something most people search a lifetime for: a sense of belonging. But her parents had other plans. She pivoted to human resources, built a 25-year career in food systems, and became very good at looking successful while feeling deeply alone.

Then, in 2011, everything fractured. A brutal domestic assault hospitalized her for months. When she finally left the hospital, she left everything else too—her career, her home, her city. In the wreckage, something shifted. "All of a sudden, everything seemed different in a good way," she told Black Mountain News. "The flowers were brighter and the colors were brighter. The sounds were louder. I felt a deeper empathy."

She moved to western North Carolina to rebuild. For a while, she cleaned houses. Then she found her way to Welcome Table, a community meal at a local church, where she began volunteering.

The table that grew into something larger

One afternoon, Casparian noticed fresh produce sitting at a nearby food bank—fruit and vegetables destined for waste or livestock feed. She arranged for the surplus to be brought to Welcome Table and set up a small table where people could take what they needed, no questions asked, no shame attached.

"I always had to prove that I was poor," she remembered of seeking help in the past. "It was awful. So what was important to me was that everybody would feel loved and accepted and included."

That one table became Bounty & Soul, a nonprofit incorporated in 2014 that now nourishes 850 families each week. But the numbers only tell part of the story. The organization serves free, fresh produce through weekly drive-thru markets, but it's designed around something deeper: the belief that food access is inseparable from dignity and connection.

Participants are called "friends," not clients. Classes—yoga, diabetes prevention, financial literacy, parenting support—are co-created with community input. Volunteers aren't just helpers; they're part of shaping what happens next.

What nourishment actually looks like

When the government shut down and SNAP benefits paused, a woman on disability called Bounty & Soul in distress. She didn't know how she'd eat that week. The team connected her to a market happening that same day. She left with leafy greens, sweet potatoes, bell peppers, and eggs—and cried with relief in her car.

Another woman, living with cancer, has been coming to the markets since spring. Her doctor recommended increasing fruits and vegetables to support her treatment. On a fixed income, she couldn't afford it. Now she can.

These quiet moments reveal what "food is medicine" actually means: access, consistency, and the dignity of choice.

Bounty & Soul has distributed over 1.8 million pounds of produce, served more than 251,000 individuals, and invested nearly $1 million into the local food system by purchasing from over 70 regional farms and growers. When one farm had 600 pounds of peaches left at summer's end, Bounty & Soul bought them all—supporting the farmer's income while delighting the community. That's reciprocal. That's how you strengthen the bond between people, land, and nourishment.

This winter, the organization is hosting a Holiday Fermentation Workshop, teaching people how to turn seasonal produce into probiotic-rich, preserved foods. It's the kind of practical, joyful education that reflects Casparian's original dream: food as a pathway to belonging.

Casparian doesn't minimize what came before. But she also refuses to be defined by it. Instead, she channels her experience into action—building a space where healing happens collectively, where food is love, and where nourishment reaches far beyond the body. "If that didn't happen," she said of her trauma, "I wouldn't be able to work within the community the way we work together, which has been the greatest gift of my life."

The work continues. Bounty & Soul is now seeking to launch a permanent wellness hub, expanding what's already become clear: that one table, built from surplus and intention, can reshape how an entire community understands care.