I’ve been living with stomach pain for as long as I can remember.
When I was five, I would call my parents from school, sobbing into the phone, begging them to come get me because my stomach hurt so bad I could barely sit still. I remember curling up in bed afterward, tiny hands holding a belly that always looked huge and wrong, wondering why it hurt so much.

When I was eight, my stomach would swell until it looked like a bowling ball. I remember staring at it in the mirror, terrified, convinced that something was growing inside me. I didn’t even understand what sex was; I just knew my stomach was too big, and I thought that must mean there was a baby in there. That memory still lives in my body—the confusion, the fear, the silence.

By thirteen, I had learned how to mask the pain during the day and secretly spend nights on Google, typing in every symptom I could think of, desperate to find someone, anyone, describing what I felt. I wanted proof that I wasn’t crazy. Doctor after doctor told me I was fine. Some said I was eating too much. Others hinted that it was in my head. I started believing maybe I was dramatic. But my body wouldn’t let me forget.

Years passed before anyone finally said the words: celiac disease.
I remember sitting in that office, expecting relief to flood in—but instead, I felt numb. I thought getting an answer would fix everything, but it didn’t. Knowing what was wrong didn’t suddenly make people understand.

My family tried, but they didn’t really get it. They’d nod when I explained cross-contamination and then use the same knife on gluten bread. At dinners I’d bring my own food and pretend it didn’t bother me. I learned to smile through the ache of feeling like the “difficult one.” Every accidental exposure left me sick for days, frustrated, and ashamed for needing so much care.

What hurt the most wasn’t the food—it was the dismissal. The feeling that no one believed how bad it really was. Celiac disease didn’t just change my diet; it changed how I saw myself. It taught me how to advocate for my body when no one else would, but it also showed me how lonely it is to live in a world that treats your illness like an inconvenience.

Out of that loneliness, Celiac Baddie was born.
I built this space for the people who’ve cried in restaurant bathrooms, who’ve been told they’re “too sensitive,” who’ve been left out of family meals, who’ve Googled symptoms at midnight trying to find an answer.
It’s for every person who has felt invisible in their own pain.

Here, you don’t have to downplay what you feel. You don’t have to prove that it’s real. You don’t have to apologize for protecting your body.

This is my story, but it’s also yours.
And you’re not alone anymore.