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Childhood Magic (and Bread)

One of the most amazing memories I have from growing up was visiting my grandparents. Not only because I loved them deeply, and not just because they had a pool (which was a huge deal)…

But mostly because of something even more special: the bakery.

Every time we visited, we’d walk to the local panadería and buy freshly made, still-warm bread called mogollas. I can still smell them — warm, comforting, slightly sweet. I can still taste them in my deepest memories. We did that for so many years, and I really wish I’d done it more often… if only I had known what life had tucked away in its pockets for me.

A Childhood of Injuries Nobody Questioned

Another strong memory from my childhood? All the times I broke my ankles.
I think I fractured each ankle at least four or five times.

No one really thought much of it.

“Oh, she was running and fell.”
“She’s a child — it happens.”
“Oh well, here we go again…”

Looking back now, I wonder: if someone had run some tests at the time, would anything have shown up? Could it have been a clue about celiac disease? I doubt it — or at least, no one would have thought to look. Especially not back then.

Stomach Troubles and the Wrong Labels

When I became a teenager, I started to have stomach issues.

I went to see a very nice GI doctor. He kept telling me it was gastritis… or maybe Helicobacter pylori. I took the meds. I followed the instructions. And then I just went on with my life, thinking that maybe this was just how my body worked.

Bonjour, Baguettes (and Love)

After graduating high school, I moved to France — just for a year, I thought.
The plan was to learn the language, maybe figure out what to study in university.

Well… I ended up staying six years.

And eating countless baguettes.

And — plot twist — I met the love of my life.

→ Continue to Part 2: From Fast Food to Diagnosis — My Celiac Journey