The conversation I rehearse before saying "I can't eat that"

There's a version of me that handles this gracefully. She says the right thing at the right moment, doesn't make anyone uncomfortable, and still manages to look after herself. She's calm and unflustered and doesn't spend twenty minutes before leaving the house running through possible scenarios like a low-stakes hostage negotiation. Often, I am not her.

My friends know me well and they know I have food restrictions. They don't make a thing of it and we pick places that are usually accommodating. I look up the menu beforehand, a habit that people with dietary restrictions will be familiar with.

Still, I know before I get there that I'll have to speak up at the table. That there will be a moment where I have to ask questions, and the questions will take a little longer than a normal order, and the waitress or waiter will have to go back to the kitchen, and everyone will have to wait. I know all of this in advance and I go anyway, because I don't want to stop going to restaurants and enjoying time with my friends.

So I run through scenarios in my head on the way there. Keep the questions short. Don't over-explain. Be friendly and normal about it, even though depending on the day I can swing between feeling frustrated that there are still restaurants that don't understand food intolerances, and feeling self-conscious and not wanting to be seen to make a fuss.

As soon as the menu arrives I'll check if they can provide substitutes, gluten free pasta for example. If they can't, I'll move on; at an Italian, I'll often go for risotto. Around the table, none of my friends are bothered. The conversation moves on. I'm the only one still in my head about it.

The part that's hard to explain is not knowing whether the tension I can feel is real or entirely imagined. Whether the staff is flustered because of me or because it's a busy Friday night. Are they even flustered, or am I projecting? There's nothing wrong with what I've just done. I asked a question, I got an answer, I ordered food. But it costs something regardless, and I'm never quite sure why.

Part of it, I think, is that I'm a people pleaser. I don't like inconveniencing people, I don't like being the complicated one, and no amount of telling myself it's fine entirely shifts that. The rehearsal before I leave the house is my way of trying to minimise the impact, to get in and out of the difficult moment as cleanly as possible. And even when it goes well, which it usually does, there's still that low-level residue afterwards. I managed it, but I didn't escape it.

The thing is, the restaurant scenario is the one I can prepare for. The cake situation is different.

A colleague had made cake for the office. She'd clearly put effort in, you could tell from the way she was carrying the slices, the way she watched while people took a piece. Someone handed me one before I'd had a chance to think.

In the space of about three seconds I ran through my options.

I could take the plate, smile, and quietly not eat it. Except I knew myself well enough to know that wasn't going to work. Having it sitting next to me, smelling the way it smelled, I'd pick at it. And then I'd feel worse for not having been strong enough to resist.

I could tell her the truth, that I have food sensitivities, that I genuinely can't eat this, that it's not about the cake. And maybe this would be the moment she finally understood, and we'd never have to navigate it again. But I'd been in enough of those conversations to know how they tend to go. What is it exactly? Surely one piece won't hurt? I made it myself so I know exactly what's in it. All of it well-meaning, none of it helpful, and the whole thing turning her nice gesture into a semi-medical discussion in the middle of the office.

So I said I was on a diet and I really appreciated it but I didn't want to be tempted.

Which was, technically, true. I am watching what I eat and everyone understands that. It's the one food-related reason that doesn't require a follow-up question, because it's socially legible in a way that "my gut doesn't process this reliably" simply isn't. She laughed a little, said she understood, seemed genuinely fine about it. Someone else ended up taking my piece.

I still felt a bit lousy. Not because anything had gone wrong. But I'd told a half-truth to avoid a conversation I didn't have the energy for, and that sits differently than a clean

Two situations, same outcome, I managed both but neither feels straight forward.

I know not everyone experiences this the same way. Some people are matter-of-fact about their dietary needs, state them plainly, and move on without a second thought. I genuinely admire that. But for those of us who are wired to worry about how we're being perceived, who feel the ripple of every slightly awkward moment, the food part is almost the easy bit. It's everything around it that takes the energy.

None of it is dramatic but it adds up. And I think it's worth saying out loud, because if you recognise it, you'll know you're not the only one doing it.

About the Author
Nurture & Thrive is written from lived experience of managing multiple food sensitivities over more than 15 years. The content reflects personal experience of navigating symptoms, diagnosis, and recovery, and is focused on the practical and emotional realities of living with it day to day.