I sat in the doctor's office just after my fourteenth birthday, as my mind raced with what my mystery ailment could be. What had started out like a stomach bug had evolved into something nastier, and we needed answers. The doctor explained what tests I needed, and after a whirlwind month of blood tests, two ER visits, and an endoscopy, I had my answer.
Celiac disease.
I felt absolutely devastated, no, mortified. I wouldn't be able to eat many of the things I loved, and to fourteen-year-old me, that was the worst that could happen besides death. I hated that my body was so flawed that it would turn against itself. You see, celiac is an autoimmune disorder, and the only treatment is to not eat gluten. I utterly