The Flatness of Healthcare

I remember walking into my endo’s office, getting my A1C checked, tweaking my insulin ratios. Maybe I’d ask about a post-meal spike. But the whole appointment felt like breathing through a straw. How could I possibly condense my 24/7 reality into something they could support in 15 minutes?

On the surface, I looked fine. Underneath, I was treading water and in constant hypervigilance.

Sitting in front of “the expert” and realizing they have so few tools to help is a DEEP kind of loneliness. This person doesn’t actually know what it’s like day to day. They have little training in how to hold emotions. So I pretended things were fine—because if I cried, I didn’t think they’d know what to do. No amount of insulin tweaks, new devices, or carb counting can relieve the anxiety of constant monitoring. Every appointment felt like a miss.

Seeing the Precariousness of Life That Others Don’t

What I really needed was for someone to witness how fucking hard this is. I needed that person to feel the precariousness of life that I now feel. To reckon with death in the way I do. Death is omnipresent for all of us, but most people tune it out. Type 1 refuses to let us forget. It slaps us in the face with a low blood sugar, yanking us back to reality while everyone else drifts in illusion.

There can be something deeply lonely about that, and something deeply meaningful.

The Gift in the Struggle

This awareness is also a gift. It makes us hold life differently. We struggle through it, we teeter on the edge of it, we sense it’s precariousness every time we have a low blood sugar. We GET to be reminded. In Buddhist philosophy, there’s a practice called One Year to Live, where participants live as if they had only one year left, and see how that affects their choices. Type 1 can be like that sometimes.

Because of it, I think I’ve taken more leaps:

• Pursued a career in diabetes, even when it felt risky.
• Went to grad school for psychology – something I read about even in my free time.
• Traveled when I had a moment to.
• Started Sage Diabetes, even when sending emails to strangers scared me.
• Had hard, honest conversations with people I love.

People tell me I’m courageous. And I thank diabetes for that. It nudges me—through its dance with fragility.

Showing Up to Life Alongside Death

But honestly, the thought of not doing these things feels even harder.

I’ve learned lessons that have softened my experience with Type 1, tenderized my relationship with myself, and added so much beauty to how I see the world. Sharing these feels necessary in this strange, beautiful dance we’re all doing. 

Thank You, Type 1

I know others talk about Type 1 as an enemy—“Type 1 is shitty.” “I hate my pancreas.” And I do deeply get that.

But I don’t see it that way.

For me, it’s “Thank you, Type 1, for deepening my relationship with myself and the world. For pushing me to grow and evolve. You are a spiritual practice I’m tethered to.”

“Thank you, Type 1, for your relentless reminder of life’s finiteness, and through that, encouraging me to put my art out into the world.”

Finding Support in the T1D Journey

If you feel the weight of Type 1 and want support in making space for both the struggle and the gift, I’d love to walk alongside you. Join me for 1:1 coaching or inside the T1D Self-Care Collective. You can sign up for a chat with me to learn about both, here.