It is steady and hard-won. Trust your gut, keep asking, and build the life you need. With the right information, a stubborn heart, and people beside you, it is possible to move from fear to clarity, and to raise a healthy child, honor a loved one, and still make room for joy. She became a mother at forty while also shepherding her own mother through the fog of dementia. Her mom no longer remembered names, but she knew the baby and her daughter belonged to her. Those visits lit up the room. Between bottles and care-home hallways, she tried to hold both sweetness and sorrow at once.
Something about her baby, Sydney, tugged at her. The crying was different, sharp, restless, as if a small body hurt in ways words could not explain. By two, Sydney was barely on the growth chart. Nights were broken. Her belly was bloated, her limbs thin, and after breakfast she often doubled over with pain. Sometimes she would eat a full dinner, then ask for, and finish, another. The pediatric visits stacked up. Friends said she would outgrow it. She wanted to believe them, but her gut said keep pushing. At home, sleep was rare. Her mother fell, landed in hospitals, lost more ground. She juggled two kinds of worry, one for the child who wouldn’t grow and one for the mother who was disappearing. The question she would have asked her mom, what should I do, had no answering voice.
At five, a specialist finally listened. Bloodwork had been murky, but an endoscopy told the truth: celiac disease. Gluten, the protein in wheat, barley, and rye, was triggering an immune attack that flattened the tiny villi in Sydney’s small intestine. Food was passing through without feeding her. The relentless hunger, the sleeplessness, the pain, the slow growth, everything clicked into place. Relief hit first, then a wave of guilt. She had been right to worry. Why did it take so long?
There was no time to linger. She went home and emptied the pantry. As a non-cook, she started from zero. Fifteen years ago gluten-free shelves were thin, so she learned labels, met with a dietitian, and burned through plenty of bad pizza crusts and crumbly cakes. They grieved old traditions, then built new ones. Within weeks of removing gluten, Sydney slept. The stomachaches eased. That summer, she shot up inches.
As her daughter’s color returned, her mother faded. Alzheimer’s took her words, then her steps. She died a little more than a year after Sydney’s diagnosis. Because celiac is genetic and both illnesses involve the immune system, she wondered if her mom might have had undetected celiac too, and if a different diet could have given them more clear days together. She will never know, but the question nudged her toward advocacy. A longtime journalist, she wrote through it. Her first memoir, Motherhood: Lost and Found, traced the braid of caregiving and becoming a parent.
Later, Celiac Mom told the story of Sydney’s early symptoms, the long road to answers, and the everyday work of living gluten-free. The books found readers: one was named among the Best Alzheimer’s Books of All Time by Book Authority; the other became a finalist and recommended read by Indies Today. She joined AlzAuthors as a manager and director, helping curate hundreds of caregiver resources so fewer families would feel alone. She started sharing tips and encouragement on Instagram at glutenfreeforgood, growing a community around practical help and hope.
The two diagnoses still shape her choices. She eats well, works out, and avoids gluten to protect her future. She answers emails from strangers, points them to doctors and dietitians, and reminds them that their instincts matter. She knows how easy it is to doubt yourself when the waiting rooms are full and the tests are muddy. She also knows how quickly life can change when someone listens.
