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There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from explaining yourself over and over. Not the “I stayed up too late” kind. The other kind—the one where you’re translating your body into words for people who don’t live inside it, while trying to make your needs sound reasonable, polite, and not “too much.” Living with diabetes makes you fluent in a language most people never learn: carb math, timing, symptoms, supplies, risk. Over time, many of us also become fluent in ma

There’s a moment on some outings when you feel yourself slip a half-step out of whatever’s happening. It’s subtle at first. The conversation still reaches you, but it doesn’t land the same. You’re still smiling, still nodding, still participating—technically. But inside, something starts recalculating: How much longer can I stay fully here without paying for it later? You might treat that moment like a personal failure. If you can just rally—just push through—then nobody will

Last week I stood in the kitchen with the fridge door open, staring like the answer might be on the top shelf. I wasn’t even hungry. I was just trying to figure out what my body was doing—quietly, automatically, like I’ve done a thousand times. That’s the part most people don’t see. They see food. They see numbers. They see the supplies. What they don’t see is the constant decision-making running underneath my day like a soft, steady current. It’s a strange kind of work becau

On some mornings, the hardest thing I do all day is get up. And it’s not because my life is dramatic or that something is always “wrong.”

I noticed something recently: a nagging thought moving through me. It wasn't loud or dramatic.