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I’m no longer a gluten-free freak. After following the restricted diet religiously for five years, eleven months, and twelve days, I declared my independence on July 4th, 2025. Fitting, right? Fireworks, flag-waving, and me heroically inhaling a slice of homemade wheat bread like I was marching to fight in the Revolutionary War.
What a hell of a ride gluten-free was. In 2019, when I was going through the divorce of the century and having major digestive issues, I hired a functional medicine doctor to play Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes people go to one when conventional medicine has failed them. And boy, did it fail me. I will just say I no longer have my gallbladder.
Missing body part aside, my diet and life took a drastic turn when I fell down a rabbit hole and discovered a type of doctor I’d never heard of before. Make no mistake. A functional medicine doctor can be a bona fide MD or DO trained at one of the finest medical schools in the country. Doctors like this don’t just treat symptoms; they treat the story behind your symptoms. They’re part detective, part nutritionist, part motivational speaker. They run tests with names that sound like Cold War reconnaissance satellites and ask questions like, “How many almonds did you eat last year?” Their goal is to trace your ailments back to the moment your body’s feelings first got hurt.
So there I was, on a call with my new doctor, when she leaned in toward the camera and said, “I think you could benefit from a gluten-free diet.”
Let’s pause for a moment. Gluten. That’s a celiac’s kryptonite. People with celiac disease don’t avoid gluten because it’s fashionable; they avoid it because their bodies insist on it. For them, gluten sets off an immune reaction that damages their small intestine over time and prevents it from absorbing nutrients. Celiacs must avoid gluten for life. But you see, my GI doctor told me I wasn’t celiac. My test results came back normal. No damaged villi for me. Or maybe, just maybe, the bozo didn’t biopsy the right parts of my small intestine. At any rate, my mind was open to what the doctor had to say.
“I see,” I answered back, trying to sound intrigued.
“Many of my clients do much, much better when they cut out gluten.”
“They do?”
“Oh, yeah. Everything improves—less bloating, clearer skin, more energy, better mood, less existential dread. But of course, there are no guarantees.”
“Of course not,” I said. “What does one have to do?”
“Being gluten-free means you cut out all sources of gluten—no wheat, no rye, no barley.”
“Oh.” I paused, waiting for the rest of the list, like—just kidding! or plus a few minor tweaks—but she just let the silence hang there, as if she’d only suggested I switch from whole milk to 2%.
For the uninitiated, gluten is a protein found in wheat, barley, and rye. Gluten helps foods keep their shape. It’s in bread, pasta, pizza, and cereal. All the good stuff.
“So… no more Subway?” I asked.
“No,” she confirmed.
“Krispy Kremes?”
“No.”
“Cinnamon rolls? Birthday cake? Pretzels? Garlic bread? Anything served at a state fair?”
“No,” she said solemnly, as though I’d just listed fallen comrades.
“You’ll learn to substitute,” she said brightly.
“Substitute?” I repeated.
“Yes! Lots of gluten-free alternatives. Bread, cookies, muffins, pasta. You won’t feel deprived.”
I did feel deprived. I felt like I was being sentenced to a minimum of five years in the culinary version of solitary confinement.
She kept going. “And honestly, gluten-free is very common now. You won’t be alone.”
“But will I be happy?” I shot back.
She didn’t answer that one. Doctors never do.
“Many foods are naturally gluten-free,” she chirped, “including fruits, vegetables, meat, fish, dairy, and rice.”
I blinked. “That’s… the food pyramid. You’re listing the food pyramid.”
“Oh, come on, Jeremiah,” she said. “You’ll rediscover the joy of apples. And broccoli! People underestimate broccoli.”
“I don’t think anyone underestimates broccoli.”
“Well,” she said, “now you’ll have the opportunity to expand your palate.”
Our call ended, and I was left staring at my phone, trying to imagine a life without real bread, pasta, or cereal. At first, it seemed like an abstract problem—one that existed in the distant, well-seasoned world of gluten-free bloggers. But reality hit fast. Given the digestive distress I was in, I took her recommendation hook, line, and sinker. Desperate people don’t negotiate—we comply. And I don’t half-ass things. When I’m in, I’m all in.
The first six months were a grueling lesson in isolation. Grocery shopping became a battlefield, restaurants felt like enemy territory, and even casual invitations from friends carried a silent, gluten-laden threat.
I was raising two teenage boys on my own, and suddenly, every meal required planning that felt more like a military operation than dinner. They had appetites that could rival horses, while I was stuck eating a strict rotation of turkey burger patties, chicken, salmon, potatoes, rice, and broccoli. For a while, I made separate meals, feeling a mix of guilt and exhaustion as I chopped, baked, and boiled enough food to satisfy three people whose tastes no longer overlapped.
Eventually, my oldest son started pitching in. He helped prep, stir, measure, and assemble, turning the ordeal into a chaotic collaboration. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it was ours. And somehow, in that stripped-down, flavor-minimal world of gluten-free living, I learned something unexpected: creativity could bloom even in the confines of a plain chicken breast. You just had to be willing to experiment with Herbs de Provence—or at least be willing to sprinkle a little salt on your broccoli and call it dinner.
That first year, I ate out only four times. All at IHOPs, because they had a gluten-friendly menu (and because I didn’t want to spend my remaining life force researching other places). I became something of an IHOP connoisseur.
By my third visit, I could identify the subtle regional distinctions among IHOP locations across Idaho, Oklahoma, and Utah. One had slightly better-tasting syrup. Another had a waitress who said “gluten-free” like she was offering condolences. And the fourth had a manager who practically saluted me when I ordered the gluten-friendly pancakes, as though I’d made a brave and patriotic decision.
My boys humored me. IHOP was their consolation prize for living with a dad who cooked chicken 347 different ways. They’d pile into the booth, order whatever they wanted, and watch me work my way through a few safe menu items like a man who was trying to convince himself it was delicious. “It’s good,” I’d say, nodding earnestly.
Eating out those four times felt like mini-vacations—not glamorous, but deeply appreciated. Like going to Paris, if Paris were located inside an IHOP between 6:00 a.m. and 10:00 p.m.
Each visit was a reminder that joy could still be found in the small things: a pancake that didn’t crumble into dust, a cook who didn’t accidentally poison me, a night off from cooking stinky broccoli. For a gluten exile, that was the good life.
In September 2020, I started dating—a bold move for someone whose idea of fine dining was a gluten-friendly pancake.
Dating with dietary restrictions is like parachuting with tangled cords: possible, but rarely graceful. The first challenge was choosing where to eat. I would scroll through restaurant options like a man reading warning labels. Contains gluten. May contain gluten. Was once in the same room as gluten. Eventually, I found a place with some safe options: salmon, baked potato, and broccoli. If you removed the plate, the meal could’ve passed as a balanced diet chart.
Out with my first date, the waitress approached with her notepad, all smiles.
“I’ll have the salmon,” I said. “But I need to make sure it’s gluten-free.”
The date smiled politely. The waitress did not.
She launched straight into the Gluten Interrogation Olympics.
“Okay, so… do you mean no gluten, or like… no gluten gluten?”
“Uh… the second one?” I tried.
She leaned in. “So no seasoning mixes? No shared surfaces? No kitchen staff named Barry who ate a sandwich for lunch?”
My date raised her eyebrows.
“If Barry is touching my salmon,” I said, “we have a bigger problem than gluten.”
The waitress nodded solemnly and scribbled something like VERY SERIOUS GLUTEN-FREE MAN on her pad.
Out with my second date, the restaurant was different, but the menu was the same—salmon, baked potato, broccoli. At this point, I was developing a reputation as someone who really, really believed in Omega-3s.
The waitress came over.
“I’ll take the salmon,” I said, already bracing myself. “Is it gluten-free?”
“Oh, totally,” she said. “I mean, I think so. Let me check.”
She vanished, then returned with the energy of someone who had just Googled “what is gluten.”
“Okay,” she announced, “the chef says the salmon is gluten-free… unless fish has gluten?”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
She exhaled in relief. “Great, then you’re good! Unless the grill has gluten.”
“Does it?” I asked.
The waitress blinked. “I didn’t ask that.”
Back she went.
My date smiled at me. “Is it always like this?”
“Only when I eat at new places,” I smiled.
The waitress returned. “The grill is clean! Well, clean-ish. Clean enough. The chef says he’ll put foil down to be extra safe.”
I nodded. “Perfect.”
She scribbled again. “One salmon, extra foil.”
Dating while gluten-free felt like performing a magic trick in slow motion—with an assistant who wasn’t sure how the trick worked. But somehow, despite the twenty-question routines, the repeated salmon orders, and the growing suspicion among restaurant staff that I was conducting a personal salmon study, I survived and graduated to the next level.
That next level was with an amazing, blue-eyed girl from Oregon, my second date, whom you just met. Kathryn was living in Boise at the time. We met online and hit it off immediately. We both loved sports and worked regular office jobs in the nonprofit universe. After having a deep two-hour phone conversation, we decided she would drive the five and a half hours to Rexburg for a weekend visit in October. To my delight, she decided to stay the entire following week.
On Kathryn’s first night in town, as our evening was winding down, she looked at me with a spark in her eyes.
“Do you want to go to a pumpkin patch?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. I had no strong pumpkin-related convictions, so this felt safe.
She researched the best option, and off we went the next morning. But the moment we pulled up, her face fell.
“This is… not a pumpkin patch,” she said slowly.
“There are pumpkins,” I offered, pointing to a sad little cluster sitting on a tarp.
She shook her head. “In Oregon, pumpkin patches have fields. And tractors. And cider. And hayrides. This looks like someone emptied their trunk and called it a harvest.”
Before I could defend my state’s honor, we got back in the car, and she was already on her phone, thumbs blazing.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ve got a backup plan. Do you want to go to Mesa Falls instead?”
“Mesa Falls?” I asked. “Right now?”
She turned the screen toward me like she was presenting a treasure map. “It’s beautiful. And it’s real. Two qualities this pumpkin patch does not have.”
“Then Mesa Falls it is,” I said.
And that was it—one left turn north. The moment my life swerved from disappointing pumpkins into spontaneity and adventure.
At Upper Mesa Falls, the Snake River gathers itself and drops as a thunderous curtain of water. The falls pour over remnants of an ancient volcanic super-eruption—a reminder that this quiet corner of Idaho was once anything but quiet. A mile downstream, Lower Mesa Falls carries on the performance, the river wearing down the solidified layers of ash and lava.
We followed the boardwalk down to spectacular views among the beautiful forest of evergreens. We stood there, just feet away, watching the water drop and letting the noise and mist do their work.
Kathryn leaned on the rail, eyes still on the Falls. “You know,” she said, “we’re basically right next to Yellowstone.”
I blinked. “Right next to… as in…?”
“As in, do you want to go?” she said.
Noon was approaching, and I was on a feeding schedule. I packed exactly zero lunch. I hadn’t researched anything because, in my mind, we were heading straight back to Rexburg, where the food situation was safe, known, and predictable—like a witness protection program for my digestive system.
The first words out of my mouth were not heroic.
“But what am I going to eat for lunch?”
She laughed. “That’s your concern? Not bears? Not geysers?”
“I can negotiate with a bear,” I said. “But gluten? That’s non-negotiable.”
I pulled out my phone, took a steadying breath, and typed with the desperation of a man searching for oxygen. A single beacon appeared on the map: gluten-free pizza at Pond’s Lodge in Island Park. Twenty-eight miles away.
“I found something,” I said.
She peeked over my shoulder. “Pizza? That’ll do.”
And just like that, we were marching toward the car. Kathryn hopped in with the enthusiasm of someone starting an adventure. I climbed in with the enthusiasm of someone who had just located the one safe meal within a 50-mile radius.
“Pond’s Lodge,” she said, buckling her seat belt, “here we come.”
Operation Survive Yellowstone had begun.
We walked into Pond’s Lodge like two pioneers arriving at a frontier outpost—except instead of fearing wolves, I was fearing cross-contamination. The place was nearly empty, just a couple scattered parties.
We took a seat, and I immediately began sweating over the menu like it was a standardized test. My eyes skimmed past burgers, past sandwiches, past anything breaded or suspiciously festive. Then—there it was. A tiny lifeline:
“Gluten Friendly Crust Available Upon Request. Only Available in 10” Small – Add $4.”
A surcharge. A tax. A tribute to the gods of digestive peace. I would’ve paid forty.
I chose The Grizzly—a pizza so heavy on meat it practically needed a hunting license. Pepperoni, sausage, plain bacon, and Canadian bacon. It read like someone had simply listed every item in a butcher’s display case and called it a day.
When it arrived, I didn’t so much eat it as reclaim it, piece by piece, like a man who’d been lost at sea for three weeks and had just washed ashore at a pizzeria. It was glorious. The crust was so buttery light. A religious experience. Kathryn watched with the calm of someone witnessing a life-saving transfusion of cheese. I was also dairy-free, but I thought, You only live once, Jeremiah, bring it on! You could say I was a middle-aged man now gone wild.
By the time I finished, the world was steady again, and I was suddenly very, very ready for Yellowstone.
We left Pond’s Lodge with full stomachs and the kind of optimism only cured hunger can produce. Yellowstone was just up the road, and suddenly an unplanned afternoon in one of the most majestic places on earth felt like the most reasonable idea we’d had all day.
We drove along the pines, past the steaming vents and bison traffic jams, wandering boardwalks and geyser basins. I began to feel something shift in those few hours. Maybe it was the waterfalls we’d seen earlier. Maybe it was the gluten-free pizza miracle. Maybe it was watching Old Faithful erupt on schedule while the rest of my life silently began to do the same.
All I know is this: we strolled into Yellowstone holding hands on a casual weekend date, and 252 days later, we said I do.
Turns out, sometimes all it takes is a misidentified pumpkin patch, a waterfall, a pizza, and America’s first national park to rearrange the trajectory of your life.
We adjusted to marriage like two people learning a new dance—occasionally stepping on each other’s toes, occasionally twirling with surprising grace. By 2022, I had converted Kathryn to golf, and by May 2024, our rhythm was steady: she brought the adventurous spirit, and I brought…well, a medically necessary grocery list. She didn’t mind because she knew being gluten-free and dairy-free helped me feel better.
So when we left for a week in Paris—the City of Lights, the city of croissants, baguettes, and other gluten-packed flirtations—I arrived at the Salt Lake City Airport with a suitcase that looked less like luggage and more like food storage. Kathryn had one sleek carry-on. I had a rolling pantry that took two months to pack.
It wasn’t all bad in France. Sure, I spent the first part of the trip moving through Paris like a Victorian ghost recovering from the COVID I must have picked up somewhere between JFK and Charles de Gaulle Airport. But once I crawled back to the land of the upright and breathing, the city opened itself up to us.
One bright afternoon, still a bit wobbly but determined, we rode the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. The wind hit us, the city stretched out in every direction, and for a moment, I forgot about my luggage pantry, the possibility of gluten exposure, and my respiratory system’s recent betrayal.
And that night I found heaven in the form of ravioli at Tasca by Ciro, gluten-free Italy, bistro style in the heart of the prestigious 15th Arrondissement. This Italian bistro shares the same family passion for 100% organic, gluten-free, French Association of Gluten Intolerance-certified cuisine. What about the Four Cheese Ravioli with gorgonzola sauce, ricotta, taleggio, and parmesan shavings? Pillowy, perfect, prepared like someone had whispered secrets to the chef. I ate slowly, reverently, as if the plate might disappear if I blinked too hard.
It was, without question, the best ravioli of my life.
Surprisingly, Paris made it easy.
A few weeks after we arrived home, we were all gathered around the dinner table—me still talking about the ravioli, Kathryn recounting how she kept me alive in Paris with homemade chicken noodle soup without the chicken, the boys pretending to listen. My youngest son had the familiar yellow-and-red container of Slap Ya Mama Cajun Seasoning sitting next to his plate. Our old family staple. My old culinary crush I’d sworn off for years.
Reminiscing, I picked it up and gave it a turn. And there it was. Printed clearly at the bottom. Boldly. As if it had always been there. “GLUTEN FREE.” I blinked. I squinted. I held it at arm’s length like it might reveal a hidden message.
“WHATT!!!!!!!” I shouted—far louder than any rational human should over spices.
Everyone froze.
My son looked at me. “You okay?”
I slapped the container on the table like I’d just discovered gold. “You’re telling me… THIS… has been REDEEMED?”
Kathryn leaned in, grinning. “Are you crying over seasoning?”
“Not crying,” I said, wiping a suspiciously moist eye. “Just… emotionally hydrating.”
The boys burst out laughing. The Slap Ya Mama stayed on the table. And that night, for the first time in almost six years, I sprinkled a little rebellion on my dinner.
Fast forward a few months, and I’m sitting on the couch with Dr. B’s book, Fiber Fueled—the kind of book I underlined like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. I will keep it short and just say he asserted on pages 110 and 111 that gluten probably wasn’t my problem.
What!! Could it be? Had I banished gluten for no good reason? Was I the strict principal punishing the wrong kid?
Still… as much as the board-certified gastroenterologist made sense, as logical as Dr. B’s explanation sounded, I wasn’t exactly sprinting to the pantry to test the theory. No, I approached the idea with the caution of a man who’d once accidentally let some gluten-filled soy sauce slip through and spent the next two weeks regretting I was ever born.
I closed the book. I sighed. I told myself I’d think about it.
But a seed had been planted.
A gluten-shaped seed.
If Dr. B was the seed, Dan Buglio’s Pain Free You was the fertilizer and water. For a number of years, he’s been shooting daily videos and posting them on YouTube. They are full of encouragement for overcoming mind-body symptoms. After watching a Dan video, I’d walk away believing it was simply a misunderstanding by my overprotective brain about the condition of my body.
One evening, I was watching Dan’s YouTube channel—half curious, half convinced I was doing field research for my own sanity—when he brought on Joe from Michigan. Black hair, black glasses, the whole Clark-Kent-before-the-cape look. An ordinary, earnest guy with a Midwestern sincerity that made me want to hand him a casserole.
And then Joe started to tell the story of how he got so angry, Incredible Hulk angry, I’d say, about the vexing grip his restricted diet had on him, particularly gluten-free. So why did he go off gluten in the first place? His doctor found flattened villi in his small intestine. So he was labeled a potential celiac and did what any desperate, logical-thinking person would do—he reduced gluten, and for a whole week, he felt fantastic. Joe announced to everyone that he was allergic to gluten and had celiac disease. But then later, he got genetic testing for celiac disease, and that came back negative. Oops. He tried adding back gluten, but he couldn’t. His body wasn’t having it. His symptoms went from an eight to a ten. Unbearable, he said. He was stuck on the merry-go-round.
His turning point?
Not a carefully planned reintroduction.
Not a nutritionist-approved cracker.
Not a whisper of sourdough.
Not nibbles.
No.
A McDonald’s Big Mac, fries, and a Coke.
Joe brought his brown paper bag home, holding to this attitude like he was being picked on by a high school bully at the basketball courts, and they were about to fight.
I pictured gluten standing there, and Joe finally deciding today was the day gluten didn’t walk home unchallenged.
He said, and I quote, “I’m scared, scared as heck, but I don’t care. I just snapped in my head.”
You could see the defiance across his face—not bravado, not recklessness, but that fed-up, fight-back energy you only get when you’ve been pushed too long by something or someone. It was the look of someone who’d realized the bully only wins if you keep backing down.
Joe continued, “My anger was now at the situation, you know, and I came to the end of my rope, and I tell people that’s how it is. You have to knock that bully out, and I ate the food. I ate that McDonald’s and it tasted so good. And I’m drinking the Coke. I’m eating the fries, and my heart’s just racing. I knew the symptoms were coming. Like, I knew the symptoms were going to come, but at this point, I didn’t care.”
Dan nodded like a proud dad watching a son ride a bike without training wheels for the first time. Joe went on to describe how the symptoms he’d braced for never showed up after lunch that day. Oh, they came later. But only because his brain had been taught a lie. He eventually figured out how to get off the merry-go-round.
Meanwhile, I’m on my couch, staring at the screen, torn between admiration and sheer terror.
A Big Mac? As a diagnostic tool? This man was brave. Or reckless. Or both.
But something about Joe’s story stirred me. Maybe it was his unshakable calm. Maybe it was his determination. Maybe it was the fact that he spoke about that Big Mac like he’d just conquered Everest.
Whatever it was, a thought began to form:
If Joe from Michigan can ingest gluten and survive… maybe I can, too.
I didn’t act on it—not yet. I was still the guy reading labels with caution.
But the soil had been watered.
The idea had sprouted.
The gluten-free narrative was starting to crack.
A few weeks later, I leaned close to Kathryn and said, “One day, I think I’m going to give gluten a try.”
She froze. Her jaw dropped like she’d just seen a bison in our living room. In the four and a half years of preparing gluten-free meals for me, she never, ever imagined she’d see gluten cross my lips.
“You… what?” she said, voice tight with disbelief.
“I said,” I repeated slowly, “one day, I think I’m going to give gluten a try.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you… serious?”
“Possibly,” I hedged. “Someday. Maybe. Eventually.”
And that’s how it went for the next month. I hemmed. I hawed. I tiptoed around the idea like it was radioactive. Kathryn, meanwhile, asked periodically, with the patience of a saint and the curiosity of a private investigator:
“So… when are you going to do it?”
I shrugged. “Not today. Maybe next week. Or the week after. Or… someday.”
Her sigh was equal parts exasperation and amusement. And through it all, I realized one thing: my fear of gluten had been ridiculously stubborn. Gluten, it seemed, had become the ultimate tease in our house—and I was both terrified and irresistibly drawn to it.
Some more time passed. I was still hemming and hawing. Then one evening, I found myself sitting on the couch with Kathryn.
“I’m going to do it,” I said boldly.
“Tell me we are going somewhere good,” she responded.
“I want Olive Garden. The Chicken Parmigiana.”
“Well, okay then. When do you want to go?”
“This Friday.”
It was settled.
The next day, I found myself in the kitchen with my youngest, laying out my “big plan.”
“So here’s the thing,” I said, lowering my voice like I was about to announce a covert operation, “I’ve decided I’m going to give gluten a try. At Olive Garden.”
He looked at me. The kind of look that carried an air of certainty that comes from scoring a 33 on his ACT.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.
I blinked. “Uh… why?”
“Because,” he said, “if you get sick at Olive Garden, and it’s not because of gluten, your experiment will be a total failure.”
I paused. Thought it over. Nodded slowly. “Right. Good point.”
He smirked like he’d just solved world hunger and explained it in one sentence.
I sighed. “So… you’re saying I need a sterile environment, maybe like a lab? Or at least a place that doesn’t involve never-ending breadsticks?”
He shrugged. “Just saying. Science works better when your variables are controlled.”
I laughed—okay, maybe it came out closer to a nervous wheeze—but still, there I was, getting schooled by my own teenager, and I was okay with it.
Olive Garden, it seemed, was now officially off the table. My big gluten experiment was about to get… smarter.
The next morning, Kathryn and I were in the kitchen, plotting my gluten re-entry like military strategists planning D-Day.
“So,” she said, leaning against the counter, “if you’re really going to do this, it should be something worth it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Worth it how?”
She grinned. “My homemade wheat bread. The one you’ve watched me eat with intense jealousy for two years.”
I smiled. “Oh. That’s perfect.”
“When do you want it?” she asked.
I pretended to ponder, stroking my beard. “Next Friday. Independence Day.”
She smiled, clearly impressed. “Bold. I like it.”
My chest swelled with patriotic courage. “If I’m going to rebel, I’m going full-on American.”
She shook her head, grinned like she’d just signed up to referee a duel between me and a loaf of bread.
“Ok,” she said, “July 4th it is.”
I nodded solemnly. “Freedom never looked so good.”
And just like that, a date was set. A loaf was chosen. A country—and a gut—about to witness its bravest experiment yet.
We started the day with our town’s parade, trying to soak in the patriotic energy. The rain, however, had other plans. By mid-march, it was clear: the parade was not going to win. Soggy and muttering, we decided to cut our losses.
Back at home, Kathryn slipped into the kitchen like Prue Leith from The Great British Baking Show. Her mixer whirled. Flour dusted the counter. The smell of yeast and wheat rose like a daring promise. I hovered nearby, pretending to supervise, while feeling surprisingly confident.
By late afternoon, the loaf was done. Golden, perfect, and smugly sitting on the counter. I stared at it like a gladiator who had already won the first round.
That evening, I took one deep breath and devoured it before my gluten-free bratwurst. A simple moment, really, yet monumental: wheat, soft and yielding, carrying years of longing and dread. It tasted like rebellion. It tasted like freedom. And maybe, just maybe, it tasted like the start of something spectacularly messy.
Later that night, Kathryn asked, “So… how do you feel?”
“I feel… fine.”
The next morning, she was at it again, leaning on the counter like a detective.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said. As fine as a man who had just survived a slice of wheat bread without immediate gastrointestinal catastrophe could feel.
That evening, she circled back, sly grin in place.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but secretly ready to break into a victory dance if no symptoms appeared.
Two days later, she peeked around the corner like a proud scientist checking a petri dish.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said again, shrugging.
And that’s when it hit me: years of terror, planning, and overthinking… all for gluten.
I was fine. Totally fine.
Kathryn laughed. “Well, I guess that’s settled.”
I nodded, amazed. The fear, the planning, the paranoia—it had all melted away like butter on toast. For the first time in years, gluten didn’t feel like a lurking menace in my kitchen or a ticking time bomb in my gut. It was just… food. Simple, neutral, harmless. All that stress, all that plotting, and it only took one fearless bite to vanquish it.
Seven days later, we went on a three-day food tour, fully committed to this new era of culinary bravery. The first night was Righteous Slice, where they make Neapolitan pizza the hard way—artisan techniques, long fermentation, natural ingredients, the whole shebang. I marveled at the crust, raved about the sauce, and for a moment considered writing a thank-you letter to yeast.
The next morning, Kathryn asked, “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said.
The second night, we visited Dixie’s Diner, where they whip up comforting All-American food that tastes like nostalgia on a plate.
The next morning, Kathryn asked, “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said.
The third night, we visited Blister’s BBQ. You get the idea.
The next morning, Kathryn asked, “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said.
And just like that, gluten was no longer the villain. So you see, I don’t think gluten was ever the problem. I think it was the stress I was under and the way I trained my brain to believe gluten was the bad guy. As my hero, Paul Harvey, would say, now you know the rest of the story.
Word Count: 5,211
Here are six “writing” takeaways from this chapter:
The Beginning
1. Start With a Bold Claim—and Earn It.
I didn’t tiptoe into the chapter. I planted a flag. I opened by declaring exactly what I was breaking free from—years of gluten-free living—and then proved it with a vivid image of inhaling homemade wheat bread on July 4th.
Try This: Begin your chapter with a single, unmistakable declaration: what changed, what ended, or what began. Then follow it immediately with a concrete image that shows that declaration in action. This is how you earn the reader’s trust right from the first sentence.
2. Introduce Complexity Quickly.
Right after the humor, I dropped real stakes—divorce, digestive issues, a missing gallbladder. The contrast creates emotional depth without melodrama. This is called “the writer being real.”
Try This: In your first page, pair something light with something hard. Let readers feel the full spectrum of your life—not just the punchlines.
The Middle
3. Let Scenes Do the Heavy Lifting.
The IHOP trips, the waitress interrogations, the pumpkin patch detour, the waterfall—these aren’t summaries; they’re scenes. Readers remember moments, not generalities.
Try This: Pick one moment in your story and write it cinematically. Who stood where? What was said? What did the room smell like? Write the scene and only the scene—no explaining.
4. Use Humor to Tell the Truth.
I don’t try to be funny—I simply tell the truth in an amusing way. Humor isn’t decoration; it’s revelation. It shows vulnerability without self-pity.
Try This: Take a difficult memory and write it straight. Then go back and highlight the absurd parts—the human parts—and let those stand unvarnished.
The End
5. Mirror the Arc of Internal Change.
I didn’t end with a dramatic twist—I ended with a quiet shift: gluten wasn’t the enemy; fear was. Memoir thrives when the insight, not the event, is the climax.
Try This: Ask yourself: What changed inside me by the end of this chapter? Write two sentences—one for who you were at the start, one for who you became by the end.
6. Close With a Line That Resonates.
I ended with a Paul Harvey echo—clean, simple, earned. A memoir chapter doesn’t need fireworks; it needs clarity.
Try This: End your chapter with one sentence that feels like a gentle light switch: a truth you arrived at, not one you forced.