For 15 years I have been battling a form of inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) known as ulcerative colitis. It’s an autoimmune disease in which your body attacks your colon. When I was diagnosed at the age of 25 after finding blood in my stool, I felt like I had nowhere to turn as neither side of my family had intestinal issues. I thought if I ignored my symptoms (the blood, the bloating, the constipation) they would eventually go away. This is not the case. As I pursued my career and searched for love, things got worse and I finally couldn’t hide it anymore. When I went to the Sundance Film Festival, I was at the height of my illness and it felt like it was following me like a cloud trying to rain on every moment of joy. The following is a story from my new book that I co-wrote with Judy Batalion, The Girl’s Guide to Guts– which I never planned to share publicly. But now I hope to help anyone feel less alone. — Chloé Mélas
As I moved up the television ladder, my invitations got better and better. I was no longer at the end of the red carpets; I was only a few places from the end! One of the best parts of the job is being able to attend some of the most exclusive events, like the Golden Globe Awards, private concerts, and the annual Sundance Film Festival, which until 2026 was held at the foot of the Rocky Mountains in Park City, Utah. Sundance, started by the late actor Robert Redford, is a weeklong party celebrating the best of that year’s cinema, with a who’s who of Hollywood descending on this snowy, storybook town.
In 2012, worlds collided when Brian (my current husband) and I started dating, because he accidentally threw the hardest party to join at Sundance. Just a few months into our relationship, he invited me to go with him. I said yes before even checking if I had enough vacation days. Somehow I convinced my editor that I should go cover all the celebrity events. I also told him it wouldn’t cost the company anything because I was invited by a movie studio, which was a complete lie: I put it all on my credit card and figured I’d find out later. Luckily, she said yes!
Brian and I had taken a few trips before, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend I was going to the gym to work out when I was really going to find a bathroom in the lobby. Eventually I had to tell the truth, because saying I was going to go to the gym at 11 p.m. after a few cocktails didn’t cross his BS meter.
But the good news is that my breakouts were intermittent. And since I had a really good poker face, he had no idea how bad things could get. Plus, in the eighteen months since my symptoms wreaked havoc on my life, I’ve become a pro at mentally mapping bathrooms everywhere we go. I would also order sparingly at dinner. I didn’t want to be locked in a toilet while he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. However, trying to hide my illness while managing my daily emotional spirals became very difficult to manage.
Chloe Melas and Brian Mazza (pictured here in recent years) are now married with two sons and continue to support each other through all the ups and downs.Comedy Central
We finally arrived in Park City and from our balcony we could see the snow-capped mountains in the distance and the beautifully dressed celebrities in their winter clothes dotting the streets below us. I couldn’t wait to wear an outfit I had kept in my suitcase: the all-white look. We’re talking a faux fur vest and matching beanie, topped off with the cutest low-rise skinny jeans. I looked like an influencer before there were even influencers, y’all!
As Brian and I headed to a rooftop party, I suddenly felt the urge. My eyes immediately went to a hallway on the other side of those huge sliding glass doors. It was a single stall bathroom and the line was too long. I had to act, and quickly. I pulled on Brian’s sweater and whispered, “I have to run back to the hotel.” He figured it was an urgent code for having to use the restroom. He handed me our room key and I couldn’t have left faster.
As I began to briskly walk back to our hotel, the gentle buzz of alcohol slowly began to dissipate and my intermittent depression began to take hold. We were here, in this beautiful city, during a dreamlike event, and it had been interrupted again by my illness. Can’t I take a break? I thought.
As I walked across the street to our hotel, the need to go only intensified. I’m almost there, I told myself. Squeeze your cheeks!
I got to the row of elevators and pressed the top button several times, as if that would speed up the elevator. I watched painfully as the numbers clicked at a glacial pace from floor to floor: eight. . . Seven . . . six . . . And then, like a volcano about to erupt, my poor body just couldn’t hold it in. I prayed it was just flatulence.
This was not the case. I pooped my white pants.
Luckily no one was there, but I was devastated, embarrassed and defeated. When I got back to the hotel room, I threw away these beautiful new jeans that now represented something so painful. I sat down and cried.
“How long can I live like this?” » I groaned.
I didn’t want to leave. I had worked too hard to keep ulcerative colitis from stealing my joy and taking over my life. That day, I lost the battle. I had assumed that if I could map the toilets in every space I entered, limit what I ate, and take my medications, situations like this wouldn’t arise. A big part of having ulcerative colitis was accepting that most of it was completely out of my control. I texted Brian to tell him I was going to skip the rest of the events this afternoon. He came back and just held me on the bed.
That’s the only time I got dirty. But I can’t tell you the countless times I’ve walked into cafes and restaurants to beg for the toilet code, only to be told I’d have to queue and buy something.
They say you’re supposed to know the nearest exit. But as someone living with a bowel disease, I’ve always looked for the nearest bathroom. If I had to travel, I would plan my meals to avoid having to make a stop during long car, train or plane trips. I would even dehydrate myself, because I would be so nervous that even water would trigger me. I was wasting away physically and emotionally.
This sounds dramatic, and that’s because it is. But I managed to find the humor. I can even laugh (a little) now about what happened at Sundance and say to myself: At least Brad Pitt wasn’t in the elevator next to me.
Adapted from THE GUTS GUIDE FOR GIRLS by Chloé Melas and Judy Batalion. Copyright © 2026 by Chloé Melas and Judith Batalion. All rights reserved. No part of this extract may be reproduced or reprinted without written permission of the publisher.
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