We were already in crisis mode when my daughter was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.
That weekend plans had nothing to do with blood sugar.
It had everything to do with protecting our home and handling a situation that required police involvement. My brain was already in problem-solving mode. Protective mode. Execute-the-plan mode.
Diabetes wasn’t even on the radar.
By Monday, instead of moving forward with what we thought the week would look like, we were sitting at her first endocrinology appointment.
And honestly?
I didn’t feel overwhelmed.
I felt numb.
Focused.
Alert.
In survival mode.
We talked about family history.
Whether this was type 1 or type 2.
We did Dexcom training.
We reviewed injections again.
There wasn’t a deep dive into food.
There wasn’t a long discussion about going back to school.
At that point, they believed her blood sugar might be controlled with long-acting insulin alone.
A few hours later, we learned that wasn’t true.
That moment changed everything.
But that’s another story. I wrote about what happened when long-acting insulin wasn’t enough and how quickly everything shifted.
What stuck with me wasn’t panic.
It was a frustration that I needed more information than we were being given.
I understand doctors don’t want to overwhelm families.
But I wasn’t overwhelmed.
Education calms me.
Learning calms my anxiety.
If I understand something, I can handle it.
And I didn’t understand enough yet.
We were given the basics and sent home.
And that’s when the real tension started.
I went home and started searching.
I scrolled.
And scrolled.
And scrolled.
There are hundreds of diabetes products.
Cases.
Organizers.
Snack systems.
Travel kits.
I would add things to my cart.
Then move them to “save for later.”
Then search again.
Because I didn’t know enough to compare what we actually needed versus what just looked helpful online.
I didn’t know enough to make confident decisions.
And I couldn’t afford to guess.
The prescriptions alone were hundreds of dollars.
We had to buy new cell phones just to run the Dexcom app.
Hundreds more.
It was nineteen days before Christmas and I have 8 kids.
Nineteen days before our annual trip back to my husband’s hometown.
She was going back to school.
I was going back to work.
The rest of our life was still happening.
There was no pause button.
I didn’t have disposable income to experiment.
I didn’t have time to scroll for hours every night.
And I couldn’t find one clear, simple answer anywhere that just said:
Here are the bare basics.
Here’s what actually matters.
Here’s what can wait.
So we bought almost nothing.
Not because I was frozen.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because I didn’t know enough yet to buy smart.
We bought overpatches because she’s active and I knew the Dexcom wouldn’t survive dance without them. I shared the first products we ended up using and why in this post about the diabetes supplies we actually bought.
Everything else?
Waited.
I needed education more than accessories.
Her numbers don’t always respond how I expect.
Long-acting wasn’t enough.
We’ve adjusted.
We’ve changed providers.
We’ve asked more questions.
Diagnosis doesn’t automatically make you an expert.
Sometimes it drops you into survival mode and forces you to build knowledge in real time.
If you’re in the beginning of this and it feels like you’re piecing things together as you go, you’re not alone.
Every child is different.
We get the basics.
We go home.
And then we start figuring it out one day at a time.
That’s what this has looked like for us.
Learning when we can.
Buying things slowly when we understand why we need them.
Adjusting when something doesn’t work.
Months later, we’re still figuring things out.
And that’s okay.
Because diabetes didn’t come with a manual for OUR child — we’re building it as we go.
Photo by Yan Krukau
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