“More than a diet: Living and healing with Celiac Disease” by Jade Phillips, 16

You’re back on the bathroom floor again, knees pressing into the cold tile, hands gripping the edge of the sink as your body trembles. Your stomach twists in that now-familiar way, and the fluorescent lights above seem to make the nausea worse. You already know what’s coming. It’s part of your morning routine now. Quietly, so no one hears, you throw up, wipe your face, and pull yourself together. Then you get dressed, force yourself out the door, and go to school.

You’re exhausted. Your eyes burn, your head spins, and you’re so dizzy it’s hard to walk straight, but you go anyway. You’ve already missed too many days, and staying home feels like admitting defeat. Each absence is another mark, another reminder that you’re falling behind in ways no one else can see.

At school, your body is too weak to keep up. You nod off in class, float through the day in a fog, and speak to no one. You don’t eat, don’t do homework, don’t even try to fake it anymore. Then you come home, collapse into bed, and sleep until morning, when it all begins again.

This was my life for almost three years, and I didn’t understand why.

I had been sick for as long as I could remember. Nausea, reflux, constant stomach pain. It was just how things were. I saw so many doctors, sat through test after test, but everything always came back “fine.” After a while, I started to wonder if maybe they were right. Maybe it was just in my head.

By sixth grade, I had developed an eating disorder. I’d always been overweight, and between the constant pain and the pressure to lose weight, starving myself felt like a logical next step. If eating always made me feel sick, why eat at all? In less than six months, I lost 60 pounds. That dramatic weight loss was what finally pushed doctors to dig deeper. That’s when I was tested for celiac disease.

Celiac disease is an autoimmune condition where eating gluten triggers your body to attack its own small intestine, damaging it so badly that you stop absorbing nutrients. Suddenly, I had an explanation for everything. After years of being dismissed or misdiagnosed, someone finally put a name to what was happening to me. But getting diagnosed wasn’t the end of the story. It was the beginning of a different, more complicated one.

The only treatment for celiac disease is a strict, lifelong gluten-free diet. To most people, that sounds like cutting out bread and pasta. But for me, it meant that nearly every food I relied on was suddenly off-limits. I was already a picky eater, and on top of that, I have oral allergy syndrome, which causes allergic reactions to many raw fruits and vegetables. With so many foods no longer safe, I was left with almost nothing I could eat.

That’s when everything really fell apart. I became severely malnourished and developed anemia. My immune system was so weakened that I got the flu six times in six months, even though I’d never had it before. I was still throwing up most mornings. My hands shook constantly, and I was so dizzy I could barely focus. I spent school days drifting in and out of sleep, completely unable to concentrate. I stopped turning in assignments. I stopped talking to people. I didn’t have the energy to pretend I was okay.

My GPA dropped from a 3.8 to a 2.7. Honestly, the academic decline wasn’t even the hardest part.

Mentally, I was unraveling. The isolation, the physical pain, the confusion, the fear, it all pulled me into a place that felt inescapably dark. My depression and anxiety, which had already been simmering under the surface, began to take over completely. I started self-harming. I had suicidal thoughts nearly every day. I didn’t know how to reach out, and I wasn’t even sure anyone would care if I did.

Most people don’t think of celiac disease as something life-threatening or life-consuming, but for me, it was. And the worst part was that hardly anyone took it seriously. People made gluten jokes or acted like I was just being picky. They didn’t see the mornings I spent on the bathroom floor. They didn’t see how terrifying it was to go to school knowing I wouldn’t be able to eat, wouldn’t be able to stay awake, wouldn’t be able to feel like myself.

But slowly, painfully, things began to shift.

I found foods that were safe and tolerable. I started meeting with specialists who understood both my condition and my limitations. I began to rebuild my diet, even though it was hard. Slowly, I started gaining weight again. The shaking stopped. The fog started to lift.

And as my physical health stabilized, my mental health began to follow. I wasn’t “fixed,” but I wasn’t in crisis anymore. I was able to stay awake in class. I started turning in work again. I found the energy to talk to people, to make new friends, to join clubs. I started feeling like a person again, like someone worth saving.

Now, I’m a senior in high school. I eat regularly. I’m at a healthy weight. My grades have improved, and I’ve taken on leadership roles. I have a solid group of friends who support and understand me. I still deal with bad days, and I always will, but they no longer control my life.

Celiac disease still affects me every single day. Every meal requires planning. Every event or outing involves checking labels, asking questions, and worrying about cross-contamination. It’s exhausting sometimes. But I’ve come a long way from the girl who couldn’t get out of bed.

This illness taught me things no textbook ever could. I learned how to advocate for myself, how to take care of my body, even when it felt like it was working against me, and how to be patient with progress that isn’t linear. Most of all, I learned empathy, for others dealing with invisible illnesses, and for myself after years of feeling broken.

Sharing this is scary. But I know I’m not alone. There are other teenagers out there right now who feel sick, scared, and unheard, who are fighting their own invisible battles and wondering if they’re just being too sensitive or dramatic.

If this reaches even one of them, if it makes someone feel seen, or understood, or even just a little less alone, then all of this was worth it.

Because living with a chronic illness isn’t just about surviving the pain. It’s about learning how to live through it, and learning how to be strong, even when you never asked to be.

And after everything, I can finally say this: I feel strong.