The Grief of Gluten: Processing Food Loss

I cried over a croissant.

Not at the bakery. In my car, after driving past it. I hadn’t eaten a croissant in six months, but that day, the loss hit me. Flaky. Buttery. Golden. Gone.

If you’ve felt ridiculous grieving bread, you’re not alone. And you’re not ridiculous.

Food Is Never Just Food

We don’t eat just for nutrition. We eat for:

• Comfort. Grandma’s soup when you’re sick.
• Connection. Sharing a meal with people you love.
• Memory. The birthday cake tradition. The holiday bread.
• Culture. The foods that link you to your heritage.
• Pleasure. The taste of something genuinely delicious.

When you lose gluten, you don’t just lose a protein. You lose access to some of these experiences. At least, that’s how it feels at first.

What You’re Actually Grieving

Let yourself name it:

Specific foods. Fresh bread. Real pizza. Bakery pastries. Your mom’s recipe.

Spontaneity. Grabbing a quick bite without planning. Saying yes to any restaurant.

Invisibility. Eating without explanation. Not being the complicated one.

Simplicity. Not reading every label. Not asking every server.

Normalcy. Being like everyone else.

This is real loss. It deserves to be mourned.

The Stages, Again

Grief over food can follow the same stages as other grief. But it also loops, revisits, and surfaces unexpectedly.

Denial: “Maybe I’m not that sensitive.”

Anger: “This isn’t fair. Why me?”

Bargaining: “Maybe I can have it on special occasions.”

Depression: “I’ll never enjoy eating again.”

Acceptance: “This is my life now, and it can still be good.”

You might hit acceptance for months, and then something triggers you back to anger. That’s normal. Grief isn’t linear.

Permission to Feel

Here’s what I want you to know: it’s okay to be sad about food.

You might feel like it’s superficial. People are dealing with real problems. There are worse diseases. You shouldn’t be this upset about bread.

But your feelings aren’t a referendum on your gratitude or perspective. You can know others have it harder AND still grieve your own losses.

The way out is through. Let yourself feel it.

When the Grief Hits

It tends to ambush you at unexpected moments:

• Walking past a bakery
• Watching someone eat something you miss
• Holidays with traditional foods
• Restaurants where you used to love eating
• Family gatherings where everyone else can eat everything
• Commercials for food you can’t have (they’re everywhere)

When it hits:

• Acknowledge it. “I’m sad right now. That’s valid.”
• Don’t spiral. One moment of sadness doesn’t mean you’ll never be okay.
• Do something small. A GF treat you like. A walk. A distraction.
• Reach out if you need to. Text a friend who gets it.

Moving Toward Acceptance

Acceptance doesn’t mean you’re happy about celiac disease. It means you’ve integrated it into your life in a way that allows you to function.

Signs you’re moving toward acceptance:

• You can plan meals without dread
• You find GF foods you genuinely enjoy
• You talk about celiac matter-of-factly, not bitterly
• You can be around gluten without constant longing
• The grief visits less often and stays shorter

What Helped Me

Time. The first year was hardest. It really does get easier.

Finding foods I love. Not replacements for what I missed, new things that are delicious in their own right.

Letting go of comparison. Their plate isn’t my plate. Their life isn’t my life.

Community. Other celiacs who understand without explanation.

Meaning. For me, faith helped. Your life is about more than what you eat.

Reframing. Food is one pleasure among many. It’s not the only source of joy.

A Note on “Gluten-Free Joy”

Some celiac content tries to rush you to positivity. “Gluten-free is great! So many options! You don’t even miss it!”

That’s fine for people who are there. But toxic positivity isn’t helpful for people who are still grieving.

You’re allowed to take your time. You’re allowed to still miss it. You’re allowed to feel ambivalent even as you function.

Joy will come. But it comes alongside grief, not instead of it.

The Long View

Here’s where I am now, years in:

I still miss some foods. Probably always will. But the grief is a small, quiet thing now, not the roaring pain it was at first.

I’ve found new favorites. I’ve traveled and eaten well. I’ve shared meals with people I love. Food is still pleasure, connection, comfort, just within different parameters.

The croissant is gone. But my life is still rich.

And yours will be too.

A Prayer for the Grieving

Lord, I’m mourning something that seems small. It’s just food. But it feels big.

You made bread. You broke it. You called it holy. You know food matters.

Meet me in this grief. Don’t tell me to get over it, sit with me in it. Let me feel what I need to feel, and slowly lead me toward something like acceptance.

Help me find new pleasures, new rituals, new ways to connect. Not replacements for what I’ve lost, new gifts, fitting for this life I’m living now.

And when the grief ambushes me, remind me: I’m not alone. This, too, is part of being human.

Amen.