The Angry Phase

At some point after diagnosis, the anger hits.

Not just frustration. Not just inconvenience. Real anger. At your body. At the disease. At the unfairness of it all.

If you’re there now, I want you to know: this is normal. And it will pass. But first, let’s acknowledge it.

Why You’re Angry

Because it’s unfair. You didn’t do anything to deserve this. You can’t undo it. You can’t control it. You just have to live with it.

Because it’s hard. Every day. Every meal. Every social situation. No breaks. No cheating. Forever.

Because people don’t understand. They think it’s a diet. They think you’re being dramatic. They don’t get it.

Because your body betrayed you. It attacks itself when you eat something as basic as bread. What kind of body does that?

Because it changes everything. Travel, eating out, celebrations, spontaneity, all more complicated now.

The anger makes sense. It’s a rational response to an irrational situation.

What the Anger Looks Like

For me, it showed up as:

Irritability: Snapping at people who didn’t deserve it. Short temper about small things.

Resentment: Watching others eat whatever they wanted. Hating them for it, even though that’s irrational.

Self-pity: “Why me?” on repeat. Feeling victimized by my own biology.

Bitterness: At restaurants, at food events, at anything that reminded me what I’d lost.

Withdrawal: Not wanting to be around food situations. Pulling back from social life.

Maybe yours looks different. But if you’re angry, it’s finding an outlet somewhere.

The Danger of Suppressed Anger

You might think you should just “get over it.” Be grateful it’s manageable. Stop complaining.

That doesn’t work. Suppressed anger doesn’t disappear. It:

• Turns into depression
• Creates physical symptoms (tension, headaches, digestive issues, ironic)
• Poisons relationships
• Builds until it explodes

You have to process the anger, not just bury it.

Processing the Anger

Let Yourself Feel It

Give yourself permission to be angry. Not forever, but for now. This happened. It’s unfair. You’re allowed to be mad.

Cry. Punch a pillow. Write an angry journal entry. Vent to someone who will just listen. Don’t perform acceptance you don’t feel.

Get Specific

What exactly are you angry about? Get specific:

• Missing specific foods?
• Being different?
• The inconvenience?
• Others’ ignorance?
• Your own body?

Naming it helps. Vague anger is harder to process than specific anger.

Move the Energy

Anger is physical energy. Move it through your body:

• Exercise (hard exercise, the kind that exhausts you)
• Walk fast or run
• Dance
• Any physical activity that uses up the energy

I went through a phase of very aggressive gym sessions. It helped.

Talk About It

With someone who gets it:

• A therapist
• Another celiac
• A support group
• A friend who can just listen without fixing

Speaking anger out loud takes away some of its power.

Write It Out

Journaling the anger helps externalize it. Write without editing:

• What makes you maddest?
• What’s the hardest part?
• What would you say to your disease if it could hear you?

No one has to see this. It’s just for you.

The Underneath

Under anger is usually something else:

• Fear (of the future, of getting sick, of what might go wrong)
• Grief (for the life you had, the food you loved, the ease you lost)
• Helplessness (you can’t change this, only adapt to it)

The anger protects you from those harder feelings. But eventually, you have to go there too.

If the anger persists for months, it might be a cover for depression or unprocessed grief. Consider therapy.

What Helped Me

Time. The anger was intense at first. It faded as the new normal became normal.

Focusing on what I could control. I couldn’t control having celiac. I could control how well I ate, how I advocated for myself, how I built a GF life I could enjoy.

Finding meaning. Eventually, not at first, I found ways this experience made me better. More empathetic. More resilient. More intentional about food.

Community. Other celiacs understood. I wasn’t alone in the anger, and I wasn’t alone in moving through it.

Faith. Not easy answers, but the belief that even this could be redeemed. Somehow.

A Prayer for the Angry Days

Lord, I’m angry. At this disease. At my body. Maybe at You.

I don’t know why this happened. I don’t see the purpose. Right now I don’t care about silver linings.

But You can handle my anger. You’re bigger than it. So here it is: I’m mad.

When I’m ready, not yet, but eventually, help me move through this. Help me find what’s on the other side.

But for now, just let me be angry. And stay with me in it.

Amen.

The Other Side

The angry phase isn’t permanent. It’s a stage. Like the other stages of grief, you move through it, not around it, through it.

On the other side is acceptance. Not happy acceptance, necessarily. Not “I’m glad this happened.” Just… this is my life, and I can live it.

You’ll still have angry moments. A restaurant mistake, a careless comment, a craving you can’t satisfy. The anger will flare.

But it won’t be the dominant note anymore. It becomes one color in the palette, not the whole picture.

Give yourself permission to be angry now. And permission to not stay there forever.