🌾 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.
Let’s talk about our independence.
Independence Day, better known as the Fourth of July, is an American holiday celebrating the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, when the original thirteen colonies declared themselves free from British rule.
Most people celebrate by soaking up everything summer has to offer. They gather with family and friends, fire up the grill, maybe cool off in the pool, and spend the evening pretending the neighborhood fireworks aren’t terrifying every dog within a five-mile radius.
Me?
Today I’m celebrating a different kind of independence.
I’m talking, of course, about my independence from gluten.
Now, don’t get me wrong.
Gluten and I are on…civil terms.
We can exist in the same room.
We can exchange glances from across the grocery store.
I can even smile, give it a little wink, whisper, “Wow…you look really beautiful tonight,” and still choose not to take it home with me.
I am my own person, with my own life and my own dietary needs. And while I may miss the warm embrace of the meals I once called home, I am now a proud citizen of the Celiac Society.
This is who I am.
“But Ile’,” I hear you asking. “Why are we celebrating gluten sobriety on a federal holiday?”
Excellent question, imaginary audience.
Gather ’round.
Once upon a time, in a land that was actually not too far away, there lived a young, slightly feral, gluten-eating girl.
She and bread had a wildly passionate, deeply committed love story.
Every morning started with a thick slice of homemade banana bread slathered in butter.
Lunch usually meant a trip to her favorite Greek restaurant, where she’d order a warm pita stuffed with crispy fried chicken.
Dinner wasn’t complete without rolls.
Breadsticks?
Say less.
If wheat was her kryptonite, she was perfectly content being Superman (with terrible judgment.)
She was twenty years old and newly married.
Well…kind of.
She and her high school sweetheart had eloped the year before. They had planned a big wedding for April, but then COVID showed up, flipped everyone’s lives upside down, and politely informed us that absolutely none of our plans mattered anymore.
So, we postponed.
Instead, we planned a small outdoor family wedding.
On July 5th.
The weeks leading up to the wedding were absolute chaos.
I’d just started my first full-time job since COVID.
My mom was pregnant with my baby brother, and we were planning her baby shower.
Then my husband and I caught COVID ourselves.
We spent two miserable weeks hoping we’d recover in time for both events.
Thankfully, we did.
Or…
At least we thought we did.
Because COVID changed something inside me.
I healed…
Differently.
At first, it was subtle.
My appetite disappeared.
Everyone said that could happen after COVID, so I tried not to think much of it.
I’d nibble on crackers.
Maybe a piece of toast.
Something small.
Something bland.
But almost every time I ate, my stomach hurt afterward.
Still, I figured my body just needed more time.
My family took such good care of me while I was sick.
COVID was still new and scary, and most of my loved ones hadn’t experienced it yet. They wanted me resting instead of cooking, so they’d leave pizzas, leftovers, and homemade meals on my porch before texting me to come grab them.
Every meal reminded me how loved I was.
Unfortunately…
Every meal also made me feel worse.
On the morning of my mom’s baby shower, I woke up absolutely miserable.
But I refused to let that ruin the day.
I was going.
I was helping.
I was celebrating my mom.
End of discussion.
As I brushed my teeth that morning, I noticed painful sores inside my mouth.
While washing my hands, I noticed little craters forming in my fingernails.
I was losing weight, but somehow I was also bloated.
I’d just spent two straight weeks resting, yet I felt exhausted.
My arms had broken out into angry red patches, and I remember silently praying they wouldn’t show up in my wedding photos.
I pushed through anyway.
I arrived early to help decorate.
My grandma offered to order subs for everyone setting up.
She ordered from my favorite place.
I took some nausea medicine beforehand for good measure.
Told myself I’d be fine.
And dug in.
I never made it to the baby shower.
I went home sick before it even started.
Feeling terrible, my grandma sent me home with some spaghetti so I’d have something to eat later if I started feeling better.
I made myself a small bowl.
I spent the rest of the weekend wishing I hadn’t.
At that point, I wasn’t even looking for answers anymore.
I was looking for anything that might make me feel like myself again.
So I called my mom.
She was more than my mom.
She was my best friend.
And somehow, she always seemed to know what was going on before anyone else did.
After listening to every symptom I’d been experiencing, she got quiet for a second.
“You know…” she finally said.
“Your symptoms sound a lot like mine did before I found out I had celiac disease.”
I laughed.
No.
That couldn’t possibly be it.
Right?
“Just try going gluten free for a few days until you can see your doctor,” she said. “It won’t hurt anything.”
So that night…
I ate my very first gluten-free meal.
Then I waited.
I sat in my bathtub for over an hour because I was convinced disaster was just around the corner.
Nothing happened.
I went to bed.
The next morning, I swapped my beloved banana bread for eggs and fruit.
Still…
Nothing.
And suddenly that felt…wrong.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening.
This wasn’t me.
This was never supposed to be my story.
But for the first time since COVID…
I was hungry.
Not just a little hungry.
Hungry.
It felt like my body had been starving for weeks and someone had finally remembered to feed it.
So I started reading.
Researching.
Checking my lab work.
Carefully wandering through grocery store aisles I’d never paid attention to before.
And I ate.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
One meal at a time.
And for the first time in weeks…
My body whispered,
“Thank you.”
For the next few days, I existed in a weird emotional limbo.
Part of me was relieved.
The other part?
Absolutely furious.
I mourned.
I cried.
I got angry over things that probably sounded ridiculous to everyone else.
Bread.
Pasta.
My favorite fried chicken.
The thought of never again absentmindedly saying, “Yeah, let’s just grab food somewhere.”
It felt like I’d lost an old friend.
I called my doctor and scheduled an appointment.
Then I did what every rational, emotionally stable person does.
I Googled.
Terrible idea.
Do not recommend.
Every search somehow ended with me convinced I was either dying or destined to spend the rest of my life eating cardboard-flavored crackers.
Neither was particularly encouraging.
Eventually, I worked up the courage to tell my husband what I thought might be happening.
I expected confusion.
Maybe questions.
Maybe even reassurance.
Instead, I got an eye roll.
“If that’s what you want to do,” he said, “that’s your choice.”
Then he continued.
“But you’re going to lose all your favorite foods.”
“I don’t think it’ll last.”
“And I don’t want to be dragged into it.”
“Do what you want, but don’t expect me to stop eating what I want just because your family thinks you have some health issue you haven’t even seen a doctor about.”
At the time, those words hurt far more than I wanted to admit.
Living with a chronic illness is lonely enough.
Feeling like the person closest to you doesn’t believe you somehow makes it lonelier.
Still…
I kept going.
Because for the first time in weeks, my body was finally starting to feel like it was on my side again.
Then the wedding arrived.
I refused to eat all morning.
Not because I wasn’t hungry.
Because I was terrified I’d accidentally make a mistake and spend my wedding day sick.
I survived the July heat.
I survived the ceremony.
I survived taking what felt like approximately four thousand family photos.
Then we finally made it to the reception.
And that’s when it hit me.
I couldn’t even eat my own wedding cake.
That hurt.
I’d specifically asked for gluten-free cupcakes so my celiac family members and gluten-free friends would have something to enjoy too.
Everyone else got these gorgeous, towering slices of wedding cake.
I got my tiny little gluten-free cupcake.
I smashed a luxurious piece of cake into my husband’s face.
He booped me back with my dense little cupcake.
Honestly?
It tasted like victory.
Not because it was the best cupcake I’d ever had.
Let’s not get carried away.
But because I felt healthy.
I laughed.
I danced.
I celebrated.
I stayed at my own wedding until the very end because I actually felt well enough to enjoy it.
That cupcake represented something much bigger than dessert.
It represented choosing myself.
Guests started asking why I wasn’t eating the cake.
For the first time in my life, I said the words out loud.
“I’m gluten free now.”
Some people understood.
Some people looked confused.
Some people probably assumed it was just another trendy diet.
I honestly didn’t care.
I was too busy dancing.
Too busy laughing.
Too busy celebrating the fact that I felt strong enough to do both.
Somewhere between the ceremony and the dance floor, I realized something.
This wasn’t the end of my life.
It was just the beginning of a very different one.
One doctor’s appointment eventually became several.
Blood tests.
More blood tests.
Conversations I’d never imagined having.
Eventually, I got my answer.
Seeing the diagnosis written down felt strangely bittersweet.
On one hand, it was confirmation that my life had changed forever.
On the other…
I finally had proof that I wasn’t imagining any of it.
I wasn’t dramatic.
I wasn’t picky.
I wasn’t weak.
I was sick.
And now I knew why.
Healing wasn’t instant.
It didn’t happen overnight.
There wasn’t some magical gluten-free muffin that fixed everything.
Trust me.
I looked.
But little by little, my body started remembering how to be itself again.
My energy came back.
My appetite returned.
Food slowly stopped feeling like the enemy.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t surviving.
I was healing.
Now, here we are.
Six years later.
Six years doesn’t sound like very long, until you actually stop and think about everything that can happen in that time.
I’ve navigated two pregnancies, hospital stays, birthday parties, work lunches, awkward company picnics, holiday dinners, accidental glutenings, and more grocery store label-reading than I ever thought one human being could survive.
I went through a divorce without being able to lean on the comfort foods I’d loved my whole life.
I watched one of my favorite restaurants close its doors forever, knowing I’d never get to have my favorite meal there again anyway.
I’ve mourned foods.
I’ve celebrated new favorites.
I’ve cried in grocery store aisles.
I’ve also texted my friends in all caps because I found gluten-free mozzarella sticks.
Life is funny like that.
Some losses stay losses.
Others quietly become new traditions.
And through all of it…
I’m proud of myself.
Not because being gluten free has gotten easy.
It hasn’t.
Not because I never miss bread.
God…
I miss bread.
I’m proud, because I kept choosing myself anyway.
I’m proud of the way I can confidently say,
“I can’t eat that! I’m gluten freeeee!”
without apologizing for taking up space.
I’m proud of how much healthier my body has become.
I’m proud that I learned to advocate for myself, even when my own brain tried convincing me I was overreacting.
I’m proud that I didn’t give up on myself during the moments when it would’ve been so much easier to.
Because here’s the thing.
Being gluten free isn’t just about avoiding bread.
It’s about trusting your body.
It’s about believing yourself when something feels wrong.
It’s about advocating for your health, even when other people don’t understand.
It’s about grieving something you didn’t choose…
Then learning that your life can still be beautiful anyway.
So today, while everyone else is celebrating Independence Day…
I’ll be celebrating mine too.
Not because I escaped gluten.
Lord knows it’s still hiding in BBQ sauce, seasoning packets, chapstick, medications, and other places it has absolutely no business being.
No.
I’m celebrating because six years ago, I stopped fighting my body…
And started fighting for it.
There’s a big difference.
If you’re newly gluten free, I hope you know this:
It gets easier.
Not overnight.
Not next week.
Maybe not even next month.
You’ll accidentally buy the wrong vinegar.
You’ll get glutened by fries that “should’ve been safe.”
You’ll mourn your favorite bakery.
You’ll stand in the gluten-free aisle wondering why six crackers cost the same as your electric bill.
(Seriously…what are we doing?)
You’ll probably cry at least once.
Maybe more than once.
And that’s okay.
Because one day you’ll realize you’ve gone an entire week without thinking about gluten every five minutes.
Then a month.
Then you’ll confidently walk into a restaurant knowing exactly what questions to ask.
You’ll pack snacks before road trips without even thinking about it.
You’ll become the person your newly diagnosed friend calls because you’re the one who knows.
And one day…
Without even realizing it…
You’ll be celebrating your own independence too.
So friends…
Today.
Tomorrow.
And every day after that…
I’m celebrating my independence.
My independence from pretending I can eat like everyone else.
My independence from ignoring what my body has been trying to tell me.
My independence from feeling embarrassed to ask questions.
And if you’re reading this…
Whether you’ve been gluten free for six hours, six months, or six years…
I hope you’ll celebrate yours too.
Celebrate the tiny victories.
Celebrate the first restaurant that actually understands cross-contamination.
Celebrate the grocery trip where you discovered your new favorite snack.
Celebrate the family member who remembered to buy you a gluten-free dessert without being asked.
Celebrate every single moment your body thanks you for listening.
Most importantly…
Celebrate yourself.
Because living gluten free isn’t always easy.
But you are doing something incredibly hard every single day.
And you’re still here.
Learning.
Healing.
Living.
One gluten-free meal at a time.
Happy Independence Day, my fellow Gluten Goblins.
Be proud.
Be loud.
Be unapologetically gluten free.
As always…
K love you byeeee. 💜🌾
Ile’
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