For the first sixteen years of my life, I had a good relationship with food. Anything placed in front of me would disappear in seconds, and I had no reason to question my health or eating habits. But everything changed after my GCSE exams, when I began to experience strange symptoms that I couldn’t quite explain.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it all started—there was no defining moment. The symptoms crept in slowly, and at first, I dismissed them as stress-related due to the exams. The bloating, stomach cramps, and constant trips to the bathroom were easy to brush off. Doctors told me repeatedly that it was just “exam stress” and a lack of fiber in my diet. My blood tests came back normal, and I began to doubt myself, wondering if I was just overreacting or imagining it all. It was a confusing time where I questioned whether I was really sick or just making it up.

Then, things took a dramatic turn. One morning, I woke up in excruciating pain and noticed blood in my stool. I was terrified, but I kept it to myself, hoping it would go away. I still didn’t fully comprehend what was happening to me. Despite the growing symptoms, I tried to maintain a normal life—attending school, playing football, hanging out with friends—while silently battling this new, unexplained pain. I was determined not to let my health hold me back.

But the symptoms grew worse. My fatigue became debilitating. I lost weight rapidly, missed school frequently, and struggled to keep up with the demands of daily life. The pain, nausea, and blood loss were constant, yet I tried my best to pretend everything was fine. My friends and teachers started to notice the drastic changes in my appearance, asking questions I couldn’t answer. I had no explanation, only confusion and frustration. I didn’t know what was happening, and I certainly didn’t know how to talk about it.

Things reached a breaking point when my relationship with food began to change. Food, once my friend, had become my enemy. Every time I ate, I’d experience pain, vomiting, and bleeding shortly after. This fear of food led me to limit what I ate, avoid certain foods, and obsess over the idea that food was causing my suffering. I even started to feel like I couldn’t trust my own body. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease at the age of 17 that I finally understood what was happening to my body.

Crohn's disease is an incurable, chronic illness that causes inflammation in the digestive tract. For me, it meant years of trying different medications, undergoing multiple surgeries, and battling constant flare-ups. But even though I’m in remission now, it didn’t happen overnight. The road to remission was long and difficult. I had to learn to live with the unpredictability of my illness, and it wasn’t always easy.

One of the hardest parts of living with Crohn’s disease is that it’s an invisible illness. You can’t tell by looking at me that I’m sick. And that’s something I’ve heard time and again: “You don’t look sick to me.” But what people don’t see are the days I spent in pain, the missed school days, the endless doctor’s appointments, and the mental toll of living with a chronic illness. I didn’t have the luxury of talking about my struggles without feeling misunderstood.

Looking back, I now realize how my Crohn’s disease led me to develop an eating disorder, something I didn’t recognize at the time. I was battling Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID), a type of eating disorder where people either avoid certain foods or drastically limit their intake. In my case, I feared food because of the pain and suffering it caused me. My relationship with food became toxic. I avoided meals or ate only a few select “safe” foods, which only worsened my health, accelerating my weight loss and the severity of my symptoms.

It was a vicious cycle of fear, pain, and avoidance. The anxiety around eating made it harder for me to nourish my body, and my physical condition continued to deteriorate. My body, once strong and healthy, now felt like an enemy I couldn’t control.

But after years of struggle, I found the right combination of treatments and lifestyle changes that brought me into remission. It wasn’t an easy road, but it was one that taught me resilience, strength, and the importance of self-care. I’ve learned that healing isn’t just about the body—it's about the mind, too.

Throughout this journey, I’ve also learned that support is crucial. After my diagnosis, I was referred to a dietitian who helped me break free from the restrictive habits I had developed. With their guidance, I started to rebuild my relationship with food and slowly reintroduced solid foods that nourished my body. There were many bumps along the way, and it felt like starting over after every setback. But with time, I regained my strength, both physically and emotionally. My mom, who stood by me every step of the way, ensured I had nourishing meals that worked with my triggers, and I’ll always be grateful for her support.

Now, I’m not just managing Crohn’s disease—I’m using my experience to raise awareness and help others who are going through similar challenges. Through The Grumbling Gut, I aim to share my story, provide support, and offer practical guidance for those living with IBD. My journey isn’t over, but I’m in a place where I can help others find hope and healing on their own path. My message is clear: though the road may be long, we don’t have to walk it alone.