🌾 Unhinged Disclaimer
I’m not a doctor, a dietitian, or the Gluten Police. I’m just a girl with celiac disease, too many opinions, and an unfortunate amount of lived experience. Everything here is based on my personal experiences and is meant to educate, entertain, and hopefully make you feel a little less alone. Always talk to your healthcare provider about your own medical needs.
It’s time to have ‘the talk.’
Adulthood comes with a lot of weird, hidden complexities. Take socializing, for example. Trying to make genuine new friends as an adult feels like a whole-ass side quest, and not even one of the fun ones. It’s long, confusing, and somehow requires way more emotional stamina than anyone warned us about.
And what about the people you grew up with? Those people knew the expired version of you. What if they don’t like the updated recipe?
Then there’s dating. Trying to integrate someone new into a life you’ve already been living is rough.
And all of these things become approximately thirty times more complicated when you’re living gluten free.
Because eventually, no matter who you’re talking to, you have to have The Conversation.
You know the one.
The, “Wait…what can you eat?” conversation.
The, “Can’t you just have one bite?” conversation.
The, “I’ve never heard of cross-contamination before…” conversation.
The conversation where you suddenly realize you have to explain your entire existence to someone who’s never had to think about bread beyond wondering whether they wanted sourdough or Italian.
If you’ve been gluten free for years, it’s scary.
Because, dude, you’ve been so careful.
In the beginning, you researched relentlessly. And trust me, you had your fair share of mishaps. But eventually, you found your rhythm. You built your little gluten-free safety net. You have your safe foods, your safe brands, your go-to restaurants, and you’ve memorized every ingredient list known to mankind.
You got over the awkwardness of bringing your own buns to the cookout and discreetly inspecting condiment labels like you’re conducting an FDA investigation in somebody’s backyard. You’ve accepted that you’ll occasionally be caught peeking into the trash because you need to double-check the ingredients on the barbecue sauce bottle. Dignity? Never heard of her.
The people who’ve been on this journey with you have seen enough to start making mental lists of things you can eat. They know that if there’s even the slightest uncertainty about a product, it’s off the table.
Then someone new comes along.
Someone who hasn’t seen it.
Someone who hears you mention you’re gluten free and casually asks,
“Oh… what’s that?”
Yikes.
If you’re new to all of this, it’s somehow even scarier.
Because you’re still getting to know your newly gluten-free body. You’re still calling restaurants ahead of time to ask if they have a dedicated fryer, and you’re still shocked when they confidently tell you “yes,” only for you to discover halfway through dinner that they absolutely did not.
You’re trying to educate yourself about something that’s completely changed your life while simultaneously educating your family, your friends, your coworkers, and every waiter who insists, “Well…the croutons are pretty easy to pick off.”
It feels impossible.
I was thinking about all of this one night. (Because gluten haunts me, obviously.)
And honestly?
I had a pretty good gluten-free year.
I didn’t have any major glutenings.
I didn’t have to sprint out of a café looking for the nearest bathroom.
I found some new favorite gluten-free snacks.
I didn’t shit myself in public.
Honestly? Huge year.
I even found a couple of restaurant menus that really understood the assignment.
Then I realized something.
My boyfriend and I had just passed our one-year anniversary.
Which meant…
He had never actually seen me get glutened.
Cue the panic.
At approximately one in the morning, I rolled over toward my half-asleep, barely-conscious boyfriend and asked,
“Hey…”
“…why am I gluten free?”
He cracked open exactly one eye.
Squinted at me.
Processed absolutely nothing.
Rubbed his face for a second before this sweet, lactose-intolerant summer child looked at me and said,
“…Because it makes your stomach hurt? Like when I eat ice cream?”
…
Full.
Mental.
Facepalm.
It wasn’t his fault.
He’d never really had to see it.
He’d never seen me curled up with a heating pad because somebody forgot to mention the soy sauce.
He’d never watched me spend an entire weekend recovering from one meal.
He’d never had to think about the fact that gluten isn’t just “something that upsets my stomach.”
And then it hit me.
Maybe people don’t understand because we aren’t giving them anything to compare it to.
How do you explain something that becomes your normal to someone who’s never had to think about it?
How do you explain that your entire relationship with food changed overnight?
How do you explain cross-contamination without sounding like you’re preparing for biological warfare?
I realized I needed a comparison.
Not a perfect one.
Not even a medically accurate one.
Just one that would make people stop and go,
“…Oh.”
So, my friends…
I came up with a story.
The Story
Picture this.
I’m entering my teenage dirtbag era.
I’m a senior in high school, barely skating through my classes, working part time, and avoiding my strict, semi-traditional parents like the plague.
I mostly kept to myself, but summer was right around the corner, and this felt like my last chance to actually get to know my classmates before we all disappeared into adulthood.
Someone was throwing a bonfire that weekend.
Not really my scene.
But everybody was going.
One of the financially blessed band kids had parents who were out of town, and for reasons that still confuse me to this day, they had left behind a fully stocked liquor cabinet.
I wasn’t really a drinker.
I knew I’d sooner choose death than let my parents catch me drunk.
So naturally…
That was the night I decided to start.
I partied all night.
I socialized.
I made friends.
I drank UV Blue straight from the bottle.
(I’m showing my age here. Shhh.)
Even through my alcohol-fueled confidence, I remember thinking,
“There is absolutely no way my body survives this.”
But guess what?
It did.
I woke up the next morning completely hangover free.
No headache.
No nausea.
No stomachache.
I had a pep in my step and a dangerous amount of confidence.
Maybe I had just discovered my new favorite pastime.
Sure, I was underage.
But so was everyone else.
If I didn’t get sick and my parents never found out…
Who really gave a damn?
Certainly not seventeen-year-old me.
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