Embracing an Appetite for Change

A few years ago, I listened to a podcast where a man shared that after a lifetime of eating eggs—in bulk—he discovered he was actually allergic. For years, he had lived with internal discomfort and mild health issues that were never traced back to a source. They were dismissed, managed, or simply tolerated. Over time, they became normal.

What struck me most wasn’t the eggs—it was the realization of how easily pain can become familiar. How discomfort, when it’s all you’ve ever known, quietly blends into daily life. There’s an irony in that. What we endure long enough often stops alarming us, even when it’s slowly costing us our health, our peace, or our ability to fully live.

That same pattern exists far beyond food. It shows up in lives shaped by long-term trauma or abuse—where pain goes unrecognized or unaddressed, not because it isn’t real, but because it’s become routine. Over time, that normalization shapes what we believe is acceptable, sustainable, or “just the way things are.” And sometimes, that pattern carries over into the body.

Fast forward to this year. After a lifetime of navigating autoimmune issues that began in childhood—conditions with limited explanations, unclear origins, and few solutions beyond symptom-managing medications—I once again found myself seeking answers. Over the years, I had seen countless primary care doctors and been referred from specialist to specialist, often leaving with more questions than clarity. While I had heard of functional and holistic approaches, I hadn’t yet pursued care in that space—only continuing the familiar cycle of conventional routes that rarely addressed root causes.

At the same time, I wasn’t new to learning. Over the years, I had grown in knowledge—reading, listening, and paying attention to holistic approaches, nutrition, and the ways food and lifestyle impact the body. I understood the theory. I just hadn’t yet realized how deeply it might be affecting me.

As an adult, I made a quiet but intentional decision: to take responsibility for the areas of my health where I could seek understanding and change. Not because it was easy—but because unanswered questions had begun to feel heavier than the effort required to pursue truth. The reality is, modern medicine still has limitations when it comes to autoimmune and inflammatory conditions. Outside of functional or holistic approaches—which focus on root causes, nutrition, and long-term healing—there are rarely quick fixes. And for someone who has already walked a long road of trial and error, it can feel like a never-ending cycle of “try this, test that,” with far more unknowns than solutions.

And yet, clarity came—unexpectedly.

This year, for the first time, I received concrete results that traced my ongoing issues back to a source. Like the man from that podcast, I discovered I had multiple food allergies I had lived with unknowingly for years: eggs, dairy, wheat, gluten, corn, and cacao.

The news landed like a shock. At the time, I was on an egg kick—as someone who finds it perfectly acceptable that breakfast foods belong at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sweets, pastries, and bread had long been a love language of mine, and pizza? That sacred union of bread and cheese held a special place in my heart. Dairy, in particular, required a brief but very real grieving process. It wasn’t just food—it was comfort, celebration, and familiarity.

I was faced with a choice. I could continue eating foods I had always tolerated—foods that were unknowingly wreaking silent havoc. They didn’t cause immediate, dramatic reactions, but they may have been quietly contributing to inflammation and long-term imbalance. Or I could step into a new path—one that felt, unmistakably, like a door God had finally opened in my pursuit of truth.

That choice didn’t come without loneliness or questions—and if I’m honest, it mirrored much of what my healing journey has felt like. Many people around me couldn’t relate. Some asked, half-joking and half-concerned, “So… what can you eat?”

Fortunately, I’ve always loved food. I love cooking, experimenting, recreating comfort, and proving that nourishing food doesn’t have to taste like chalk or cardboard. What once felt like limitation slowly became invitation. A creative season of learning new ingredients, new techniques, and new ways to honor my body without sacrificing flavor or joy.

Along the way, my understanding deepened. Over time, much of our modern food supply—especially wheat, gluten, dairy, and corn—has been heavily modified and processed. These changes can make foods harder to digest and more inflammatory, particularly for bodies already under stress. Gluten and dairy are commonly associated with inflammation, while corn—often hidden in syrups, starches, and fillers—appears in countless processed foods, frequently without us realizing just how much we’re consuming. Even for those without diagnosed allergies, experimenting with alternatives can sometimes lead to improved digestion, reduced inflammation, and greater overall balance.

Still, I’ll be honest: a few months in, I wondered if it was worth it. Aside from continued weight loss—which I had already been experiencing from increased movement and healthier habits—I wasn’t seeing the obvious changes I expected. I thought I’d feel immediate bursts of energy, have glowing, acne-free skin, and notice dramatic hair growth overnight. Instead, progress felt… quiet. Incremental. Almost invisible.

God, it turns out, has a sense of humor. In the middle of quietly questioning whether this path was making a difference, I went in for a routine eye appointment and learned that my astigmatism had slightly self-corrected. Curious, I looked it up afterward. Astigmatism doesn’t typically improve over time—it often remains stable or gradually worsens. Spontaneous improvement is uncommon. One of the few contributing factors linked to visual changes like this? A decrease in inflammation.

It wasn’t the kind of evidence I was looking for—but it was the reminder I needed. Proof that God is often at work beneath the surface, doing internal healing long before it shows up in the ways we expect—or want—to see. Not all transformation is loud. Not all change is immediate. But that doesn’t mean nothing is happening.