There was a time when I ate bread without consequence.
Bagels were casual. Pasta was emotional support. Croissants were personality traits.
Now?
Now I look at a slice of sourdough the way people look at their ex’s new girlfriend. Suspicious. Defensive. Slightly bloated just thinking about it.
It started small
First, it was “I feel a little puffy.”
Then it was “Why do I look four months pregnant after a sandwich?”
Then it was “Is my personality actually just inflammation?”
Somewhere between wellness TikTok and a $38 Erewhon smoothie, I began to suspect gluten was not my friend.
Not in a dramatic way.
In a slow, toxic, emotionally destabilizing way.
The symptoms
After gluten, I become:
• Bloated
• Moody
• Foggy
• Tired
• Questioning my entire existence
And yet… I still want pasta.
Because gluten is seductive. It’s warm. It’s comforting. It smells like happiness and poor decisions.
It lures you in with artisan branding and a sourdough starter named Chad.
The betrayal
Here’s the problem.
I don’t have celiac.
I’m not medically forbidden.
I just feel… wrong after eating it.
Which makes it worse.
Because now it’s not about survival. It’s about self-control.
And nothing tests self-control like a fresh baguette.
The spiral
You tell yourself:
“I’ll just have a little.”
And then three hours later you’re horizontal on your couch Googling
“why does bread make me emotionally unstable?”
You swear it off.
You buy almond flour.
You say things like “I actually prefer lettuce wraps.”
You do not prefer lettuce wraps.
The awakening
When I cut gluten for a few weeks, I felt:
• Less inflamed
• Clearer headed
• Slightly smug
• Annoyingly evangelical
Suddenly I was reading labels. Asking waiters questions. Saying “Is this cross-contaminated?” with a straight face.
I became the person I used to make fun of.
Growth is uncomfortable.
So is bloating.
The truth
Gluten isn’t evil.
It’s just powerful.
For some of us, it’s the tiny wheat-based chaos agent that turns our bodies into drama queens.
If you thrive on it, congratulations. You’re blessed.
If you don’t?
Welcome to the almond-flour underground.
We meet on Sundays. We bring our own snacks.