Let’s get one thing straight — bread didn’t wake up one day and decide to wreck your metabolism. Bread wasn’t plotting world domination with bagels and sourdough loaves in a shady back alley behind the bakery.
You did that. With your midnight Googling, your carb-counting paranoia, and your dramatic breakups with toast like it cheated on you with Nutella.
Bread’s just sitting there. Fluffy. Warm. Inoffensive. And you — yes, you — turned it into a villain worthy of a Netflix docuseries.
We’ve become that generation that thinks a slice of ciabatta is scarier than student loans. That croissants are secretly injecting us with cellulite. That if you so much as sniff a baguette, your abs will vanish and your future spouse will ghost you. Breathe, babe. It’s bread. Not a bio-weapon.
But oh no, Karen on TikTok said she cut carbs and now she’s glowing like a ring light. Meanwhile, she’s surviving off anxiety, coffee, and fake optimism. That ain’t wellness — that’s a slow crumble in gluten-free disguise.
Bread has been around longer than your great-great-granddaddy’s war stories. Our ancestors literally rose and fell with wheat. They didn’t sit around obsessing over glycemic indexes while gnawing on celery. They broke bread and bonds — not their spirits.
You know what is the enemy? That twisted voice in your head that tells you food is a moral choice. That your worth is tied to macros.
That eating a sandwich means you’ve “fallen off the wagon” like you’re on parole from flavor. It’s not bread that’s toxic. It’s the mental gymnastics you do to avoid it.
Let’s be honest — we’ve been hustled. Sold protein bars that taste like punishment. Convinced cauliflower could be a lifestyle.
Spent so much money trying to unlearn what a warm, crusty slice could’ve given us for $1.50 and a smile: satisfaction. Comfort. Peace.
And while you’re over there negotiating with lettuce wraps like a hostage situation, the rest of the world? They’re dunking their focaccia in olive oil, laughing with their mouths full, and not dying. Wild, right?
You don’t need a detox. You need to stop declaring war on your dinner plate. Food isn’t a battlefield — it’s a damn celebration. Life is hard enough — don’t make your lunch another enemy line to cross.
So eat the bread. With butter. With jam. With reckless abandon if you must. You’re not weak. You’re human. And if there’s one hill I’m dying on, it’s gonna be covered in flour and topped with a crusty golden loaf.
Stop blaming bread. Start questioning the culture that made you afraid of joy.
And please — for the love of gluten — pass the damn sourdough.
