(Or: How I Escaped a Decade of Medical Nonsense and Became a Gluten-Free Snack Gremlin)
Over nine years ago, I made a decision that changed everything: I went fully gluten-free after finally getting a coeliac disease diagnosis.
Before that, I spent years being misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and mildly gaslit by an assembly line of baffled GPs. One even suggested my skin condition was due to eating too many carrots. Yes—carrots. Apparently, I was living in a cartoon where turning orange was a real threat.
Meanwhile, my body was a full-blown chaos engine. Digestive drama, skin flare-ups, constant fatigue—I was basically a human version of “turn it off and on again.” Except no one knew where the switch was.
When the coeliac diagnosis finally landed, it wasn’t a shock—it was a relief. I wasn’t in denial; I was exhausted. And the moment I had an answer, I made a decision: no more gluten, no more “maybe just a bite,” and definitely no more carrot-shaming.
The gluten-free journey hasn’t been all sunshine and quinoa. I’ve had to learn how to survive in a world where 90% of socialising involves food I can’t eat and the other 10% is people asking, “So… what happens if you eat gluten?”
But I’ve also grown. I’ve learned to advocate for myself. I’ve learned that a good snack stash is basically a survival kit. And I’ve learned that there’s real strength in choosing your health over convenience—even if it means being the awkward one at every table.
So yeah, that decision? It made me who I am: a coeliac with trust issues, a dark sense of humour, and a very real fear of salad bars. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
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