When people talk about sacrifices, they usually mean noble things—time, money, comfort, maybe even a career. Me? I gave up bread. Not metaphorical bread. Actual bread. The crusty, chewy, golden kind that makes life worth living and sandwiches worth eating.
And before you rush in with a “but gluten-free bread has come a long way,” let me stop you right there. It hasn’t come far enough. If it had, I wouldn’t still be dreaming about sourdough.
Before I was diagnosed with coeliac disease, bread was a quiet constant in my life. A reliable companion. A warm, toasty hug in carbohydrate form. It didn’t ask questions. It just showed up—at every meal, every restaurant, every late-night snack. Garlic bread? Yes. Warm baguette with butter? Obviously. A cheeky croissant? Always.
And then came the diagnosis. Suddenly, bread became my nemesis. It was no longer “breakfast,” it was “a weapon of intestinal destruction.” Now, bread is something I have to research. I have to read labels, decode ingredients, and ask awkward questions like “Is it made in a shared facility?” while everyone else just tucks in.
I’ve tried every gluten-free loaf out there. Some taste like cardboard. Some are better suited for use in construction. One actually disintegrated mid-toast like it had given up on life. Others have the shelf life of radioactive waste and still manage to mould overnight.
And let’s talk about texture. Real bread has bounce, chew, and joy. Gluten-free bread? It often crumbles if you so much as breathe near it. Sandwiches become an exercise in patience. Toast requires a watchful eye and a prayer. And don’t get me started on the cost—because apparently, removing gluten adds £2 and subtracts all structural integrity.
So yes, bread was my biggest sacrifice. It’s not the kind of thing that gets you a medal or even much sympathy, but when you’re a coeliac, giving up proper bread feels like being kicked out of a club you didn’t realise you loved so much until the doors slammed shut behind you.
But I’ve gained things too. A working digestive system, for starters. A sharp eye for hidden ingredients. And, strangely, a whole new appreciation for things like jacket potatoes, rice, and lettuce wraps—because when bread’s off the table, you get creative. Or you cry. Or both.
And of course, there’s The GF Table—born out of all these ridiculous adjustments and gluten-free grief. I write, I rant, I find humour in crumbs, and I connect with others who know exactly what it feels like to side-eye a bread basket with both longing and fear.
I still miss bread. Every day. But if I have to sacrifice it forever to stay healthy and alive—fine. Just don’t make me give up coffee too. That would be unforgivable.
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