Are you ready to be well? Are you listening?

Are You Ready to Be Well?

The long road to my celiac diagnosis, the father I still miss, and a message of hope for anyone who is struggling.

Are you ready to be well? Are you truly listening? I’m writing this for anyone who is sick and searching — or who loves someone who is. There’s a scripture I hold close: “Men are that they might have joy.” I believe with all my heart.

From the bottom

There was a season when I had been so sick for so long, and grown so weak, that I began to lose my desire to keep going at all. My body couldn’t seem to draw nourishment from food — I was eating, but nothing of value was reaching my cells. The doctors had thrown up their hands. My parents didn’t know what to do. And so, from the very bottom, I began to pray a new prayer: “God, please give me the desire to be well.”

A friend encouraged me to fast and pray, and I went to the temple to be still and to listen. And this time, something was different — and the difference was me. I was finally ready to hear.

The answer came sideways

It arrived in the most unexpected way. A woman told me about her brother, whose story was almost identical to mine — and she didn’t just tell me; she went to work, reaching out to her brother-in-law, who kindly mailed me stacks of celiac literature. That was the beginning of my road back. When my own doctor finally understood, he threw his hands in the air and declared, “We’ve found our answer!”

Here’s what humbles me: two different friends had gently suggested, months earlier, that I might have a problem with wheat. And I’d dismissed it — my symptoms didn’t match the celiac stories I’d heard, so I ignored the “crazy idea” entirely. So if you’ve read My Story, and your symptoms don’t match either — could it still be celiac?

The great imitator

In Dr. Peter Green’s book Celiac Disease: A Hidden Epidemic, he describes just how astonishingly varied this disease can look. My grandmother had the “textbook” signs — bloating, weight loss — and was diagnosed quickly. Mine started that way on my mission in Chile, but then turned into bone-deep fatigue, brain fog, and memory trouble. I was first misdiagnosed with depression, then Epstein-Barr, then fibromyalgia, then chronic fatigue — specialist after specialist — while the real cause hid quietly underneath it all.

So if you’re still searching, please don’t give up. Sometimes the answer is simply one that no one has thought to look for yet. What researchers increasingly recognize is that untreated celiac doesn’t only affect the gut — it can touch many systems of the body, including the brain, mood, and clarity of mind.

Recovering the mind

My grandmother once said something I’ll never forget: recovering from gluten physically, she told me, is easier than recovering mentally. I knew exactly what she meant. In the days after I’ve accidentally gotten gluten, a heaviness can settle over my mind — dark, untrue thoughts that feel real but simply aren’t. I’ve learned to pray to tell the difference between “the gluten talking” and what’s true.

And I’ve learned to lean on my husband. I’ve asked him, in those hard recovery days, to help me remember who I really am — to remind me that I’m a good mother and a good wife, that I’m loved, and that the fog will lift. He holds me through it. And usually by the third day — like a small resurrection of mind and body — the light returns. It always returns.

— ♥ —

My dad’s greatest love, and his greatest fear

Years ago, I was taking a family-relations course at BYU, and the professor suggested we write down questions to ask our parents. On a long, slow drive with my dad from Provo to Fillmore, I finally asked him mine. I only remember two of his answers.

“Dad, what is your greatest love?” I was so certain he’d name his kids — he’d sacrificed everything for us. Instead, quietly, he said: “The Savior.” I was surprised, and if I’m honest, a little jealous. I wrote it down.

“Okay, Dad — what is your greatest fear?” And he answered: “My depression.” He told me he never knew when it would come, or how long it would stay. My father lived with bipolar depression, and he was brave about it — he checked himself into the hospital more than once, trying with everything in him to understand it and to heal. We drove on in silence for a long while after that. I have never forgotten the feeling in that car.

Letting the grief come

For almost ten years, I didn’t let myself grieve my dad. I stuffed it down and kept moving — caring for my kids, for the families who worked for us, for everyone but myself. It wasn’t until I lost a dear friend, a little over a year ago, that the door finally opened and the grief came pouring out. I cried for three days. And then, somehow, it was finished — I had mourned, and I could go on.

These days the tears still surprise me. They come quietly in Relief Society, when I feel the love of the women around me. I tell people it’s pregnancy hormones. But the ones who know me best know the truth: I just really, really miss my dad.

I will always wish I’d had more time with him — that he could have held on a little longer. For a long time I told myself that if only I’d known then what I know now, I could have fixed it. But I’ve come to understand that an illness as heavy as his is bigger than any one answer, and that the people we love who carry that weight deserve every kind of care and compassion there is — good doctors, good medicine, and people who won’t let them face it alone. So I don’t hold his story as a failure, his or mine. I hold it with love.

— ♥ —

If something in this is your heart

So if something here has stirred your own heart — if you are sick and searching, or if you’ve ever quietly wondered whether the people you love might be better off without you — please hear me clearly: they would not be. You are needed here. You are loved beyond what you can feel right now. God made you that you might have joy, and He wants you to stay and find it. Please don’t carry this alone.

Please reach out — today. If you’re struggling, talk to someone who loves you, or to your bishop, or your doctor. And if the darkness feels like too much, in the U.S. you can call or text 988 any hour of the day or night to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — a real, caring person, any time. You matter more than you could possibly know. This world is better with you in it. Please stay.

Hold on, friend. The light does return — I promise you it does. My prayers are with you.

With love,

Steffi

(“Steffi” is what my dad always called me.)