This morning, I dropped my girls off to head to youth camp for the week.
And while today I felt peace, I couldn’t help but remember a very different version of me a few years ago — the mom who used to spiral over things like this. The mom who had just gotten the celiac diagnosis for her kids and couldn’t imagine how they’d ever do anything “normal” again.
School trips.
Sleepovers.
Church retreats.
Overnight camps.
Being away from me… and my kitchen.
How could I ever trust someone else’s hands to feed them safely?
If you don’t know much about celiac, this might sound dramatic. But if you do — if your child has just been diagnosed, or maybe even if you were — then you know exactly what I mean. You’ve felt the quiet panic. You’ve asked yourself if your family will ever function the same again.
I remember lying awake at night, imagining every possible scenario and rehearsing conversations I might need to have with camp directors, counselors, or chaperones… years before the trips ever happened.
If I could go back and sit with that version of myself, here’s what I’d say:
It’s going to be okay.
Not perfect. Not easy. But okay.
There will be safe options. Your kids will get to travel. They will eat differently than everyone else — and yes, they’ll hate it at times. (Honestly, I still hate it at times.) They’ll hate bringing their own food. They’ll get tired of feeling like the “different” one.
But you know what? That tension will build character. It will teach boundaries, discernment, and confidence.
You will teach them how to ask the right questions.
You will teach them how to advocate for themselves.
You will show them that it’s okay to be different — because you live it, too.
And yes — there will be mistakes. Miscommunications. Food that was “supposed” to be safe. Stomach aches and tears. The dreaded, “I don’t feel good,” text. It’s gut-wrenching.
But every one of those moments will teach you something. And you’ll do it better next time.
Here’s What We’ve Learned (So Far):
Whether it’s a camp, a class trip, or a sleepover, here are some of the practices that have helped us prepare — and release — with peace:
Always Call Ahead
I always reach out to the camp or event coordinator well in advance to ask about:
- What their food accommodations look like
- Whether they’ve served kids with celiac before (not just gluten-free preferences)
- How familiar is the kitchen staff with cross-contamination
- Whether they have a separate prep area or protocols in place
Honestly, I can usually tell how safe it’ll be just based on how they answer. If they seem confused or hesitant, that’s my cue to pack food.
One time, someone asked, “Well, what happens when they eat gluten?”
That’s not the question you want to hear — especially if it’s being used to gauge how careful they need to be. That kind of uncertainty tells me everything I need to know.
I also make sure to talk to the counselors or adults directly supervising my kids. Even if the kitchen is careful, I want someone with them who’s aware of the situation and can help them navigate any moments of uncertainty.
When in Doubt, Pack a Cooler
If the kitchen isn’t 100% confident or trained in preparing celiac-safe food, I pack meals. I ask about:
- Access to a fridge
- If there’s a microwave or toaster oven
- Who will be in charge of storing and heating the food
When my girls were younger, I overpacked — like, really overpacked. I wanted to be sure they had everything. Even if half the food came home untouched, it gave me peace knowing they weren’t going to be hungry or stuck with unsafe options.
Now that they’re older and more confident in making decisions, I’ve pared it down. For this trip, I packed the least amount of food I ever have.
Progress.
Teach Them to Trust Their Gut
Literally and figuratively.
If something feels “off,” they know they have full permission to say no — even if an adult says, “It should be fine.”
Their health is more important than being polite or avoiding discomfort. And that kind of discernment takes time. It’s not instant — it’s built through conversations, experiences, and your modeling.
Let Go, Bit by Bit
This might be the hardest part. But every trip, every overnight stay, every step away from your kitchen… is part of the process.
You don’t have to stop caring. You don’t have to pretend it’s easy. But you can begin to trust them. And more importantly, you can trust God to go where you cannot.
He is their covering, their wisdom, their peace, and their protection.
Plan for the Travel, Too
This is one we’ve learned the hard way.
If there’s a stop for lunch or dinner along the way to camp, in the airport (or on the drive home), ask ahead of time if there’s a plan. This trip, there was a stop. Planned with unsafe options — so I packed food for the car ride and labeled it clearly.
You don’t want your child stuck at Barros with nothing but a drink while everyone else eats. (Been there.)
Final Thoughts
Sometimes I feel silly talking about this. I know there are bigger, more life-threatening conditions out there. But if you’re living this, you know that the emotional, mental, and spiritual weight of parenting a child with a dietary autoimmune condition like celiac is real.
The fear. The responsibility. The double-checking and overthinking and packing just-in-case snacks everywhere you go. It’s exhausting.
But it’s also part of your story. It’s part of theirs. And it’s one God can use to build wisdom, resilience, compassion, and strength — in both of you.
So if you’re in the parking lot crying, or panic-Googling “gluten-free safe camps,” or sending your kid away with six labeled containers and a backup cooler… I see you.
You don’t need to have it all figured out today.
You just need to take the next step: Make the call. Ask the questions. Pack the food.
Help them learn how to walk this out.
And then… slowly, trust God, and let them go.
One safe step at a time.
