🌾 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.
The Journey to the End
“Liver cirrhosis.”
My boyfriend looked at me with the confidence of a man who thought he’d cracked the code.
“Right?” he said. “I mean, the alcohol was probably attacking her liver. She didn’t notice anything for years, then she started drinking more again, and eventually it just…caught up to her.”
“Kind of,” I laughed.
“But what if it wasn’t just attacking her liver?”
He tilted his head.
“What if it was attacking her entire body? Slowly. Quietly. Every single time she drank. What if every sip was doing damage faster than her body could repair it?”
He thought for a second.
“Well…then she’d have to quit drinking.”
I nodded.
“Exactly.”
“And that’s where the story starts getting complicated.”
He frowned.
“What do you mean? People quit drinking all the time.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Some people never drink at all. Some people quit because they want to. Some people quit because they have to.”
He shrugged.
“So…what’s different?”
“The difference is that she doesn’t want to.”
She likes drinking.
She likes margaritas on vacation.
She likes fruity cocktails with her friends.
She likes a cold beer around a bonfire.
She likes champagne on New Year’s Eve.
She likes ordering the drink with the fancy garnish because life is short and the little paper umbrella makes her happy.
She doesn’t quit because she suddenly hates alcohol.
She quits because alcohol no longer loves her back.
That landed.
I could see the wheels turning.
“But it gets worse,” I said.
It’s not just about drinking anymore.
Now she has to think about everything else.
Her favorite perfume?
Alcohol based.
The mousse that keeps her curls defined?
Alcohol.
The mouthwash she uses every night before bed?
Alcohol.
Hand sanitizer.
Cooking extracts.
Cold medicine.
Suddenly, she’s reading labels on products she never imagined she’d have to question.
Sound familiar?
Eventually, she starts looking for substitutes.
Mocktails.
Alcohol-free wine.
Zero-proof spirits.
She finds one she’s excited about and meets up with her friends for dinner.
Everyone else orders margaritas.
She orders the mocktail.
It comes in a plain glass.
No salt rim.
No garnish.
No tiny umbrella.
It’s somehow the same price as everyone else’s drink despite having significantly less personality.
It tastes…
Fine.
But as she watches everyone else clink glasses and take that first sip, she realizes she’s not actually mourning the drink.
She’s mourning the normalcy.
Then come the comments.
“Oh, one won’t hurt.”
“You’ve been good for months.”
“I could never give up alcohol.”
“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”
“You don’t have to be that careful.”
Some people congratulate her on her “sobriety.”
Others try to convince her she’s earned a cheat day.
Most of them mean well.
Almost none of them understand.
One night she’s shopping for another alcohol-free mixer.
She finds one she’s been dying to try.
She gets home.
Pours herself a glass.
Right before taking the first sip, she notices the tiny print on the label.
May contain traces of alcohol.
She stares at it.
May contain.
Well…
It doesn’t say it does.
Maybe it’s fine.
Maybe this time…
So she drinks it anyway.
Halfway through the second glass, she has to send her date home.
The rest of the weekend is spent recovering.
I looked back at my boyfriend.
“This,” I said quietly, “is my life.”
Replace the word alcohol with gluten.
Or wheat.
Or barley.
Or rye.
Or malt.
Or brewer’s yeast.
Or modified food starch when the label refuses to elaborate.
Or one of the dozens of ingredients that somehow all circle back to gluten.
It’s realizing that something everyone else enjoys without thinking has quietly become dangerous to you.
It’s watching everyone around you eat the foods you grew up loving while knowing your relationship with them is over.
It’s asking seventeen questions before ordering fries because you don’t care about being difficult—you care about being able to function tomorrow.
It’s grieving something that other people don’t even realize you’ve lost.
And then trying to explain that grief without sounding dramatic.
That’s why I chose alcohol for this story.
Not because the two are medically the same.
They’re not.
But because alcohol is something people already understand.
People understand that alcohol isn’t safe for everyone.
It’s labeled.
It’s talked about.
We’re taught that some people should avoid it completely.
Nobody argues with someone who’s allergic to alcohol.
Nobody insists that a recovering alcoholic should “just have one.”
Nobody tells someone with liver disease to “live a little.”
They understand there are consequences.
Gluten doesn’t always get that same respect.
Now imagine if alcohol were in everything.
Your soup.
Your soy sauce.
Your seasoning blend.
Your lipstick.
Your medication.
Your communion wafer.
Your fries.
Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?
Welcome to gluten.
Gluten somehow sneaks its way into foods that had absolutely no business inviting it in.
Potatoes are gluten free.
Oil is gluten free.
Salt is gluten free.
So why are we coating fries in wheat?
Roasted chicken is naturally gluten free.
Then somebody shoves a beer can up its ass, and suddenly I’m eating plain salad. Again.
I have questions.
Nachos?
Perfect.
Except somebody bought the taco seasoning with wheat as a filler even though every spice in that packet already exists individually in their pantry.
Respectfully…
Who the hell approved this?
Being gluten free is hard.
But you know what’s harder?
Feeling like the people around you don’t believe you.
Like they think you’re exaggerating.
Like you’re choosing inconvenience for fun.
Trust me.
If I could wake up tomorrow and eat a basket of warm breadsticks without consequences, I would.
Immediately.
Probably before brushing my teeth.
None of us are doing this because it’s trendy.
We’re doing it because our bodies made the decision for us.
So, friends, the next time someone says,
“Hi, I’m gluten free.”
They’re probably not asking you to memorize every ingredient on Earth.
They’re not asking you to throw out your kitchen.
They’re not asking you to panic over accidentally buying the wrong soy sauce.
They’re just asking you to believe them.
Believe them when they say they’re trying.
Believe them when they ask questions.
Believe them when they skip the birthday cake.
Believe them when they say,
“No thanks.”
Because behind those two little words—
“I’m gluten free.”
—is an entire story you probably never had to live.
Okay.
Rant over.
Now go send this to the sibling who insists one crouton is basically a garnish.
Or the in-laws who keep sneaking your celiac kid “just one real cookie.”
Or your former favorite restaurant that swears the fries are gluten free because “we pick the breading out of the fryer every morning.”
(I wish I were kidding.)
K love you byeee. 💜
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