“It’s not just checking blood sugar. It’s never turning your brain off.”
What People Think It Looks Like
People think it’s checking blood sugar.
Counting carbs.
Giving insulin.
They think technology makes it easier.
That alarms keep everything under control.
That once you “figure it out,” it becomes routine.
They think certain foods are just… gone now.
No sweets.
No pasta.
No normal childhood things.
I was told that right after diagnosis.
Right before Christmas.
That she wouldn’t be able to eat the candy we had just made together.
What It Actually Looks Like
She can eat the candy.
She can eat the pasta.
She can eat like any other kid.
It’s just not simple anymore.
Because it’s not about the food.
It’s about timing.
It’s about insulin.
It’s about making sure her body doesn’t crash or spike hours later.
She needs sugar to survive.
She needs carbs to dance for hours.
She needs protein even when she doesn’t want it.
Every decision has layers.
And sometimes… you do everything “right”
and her body still proves you wrong.
The Mental Load No One Talks About
I wake up and check her numbers.
If alarms went off all night—I check her numbers.
If it was quiet—I check her numbers.
I hate the alarms.
But I hate the silence more.
On the way to work it’s no longer just:
“Are the kids up?”
No alert.
No notification.
And I’m scrambling to my phone because I don’t trust the silence.
I can’t depend on the system alone.
So I check anyway.
Over and over.
I am always watching her numbers.
Her trends.
Her patterns.
Even when I look like I’m focused on something else… I’m not.
If you’ve ever felt like your brain never shuts off, even when everything looks “fine” on the outside, I wrote more about that here: The Days I Look Fine… But I’m Not
What a “Normal Day” Actually Looks Like
Morning is making sure she eats so she doesn’t drop.
School is watching her numbers and hoping she catches things in time.
Work is trying to do my job while quietly managing another life from a screen.
After school is another layer—
because independence and safety don’t always line up.
Dance nights?
That’s a whole different level.
Timing activity mode.
Avoiding insulin stacking.
Trying to prevent lows without sending her high for hours.
And still trying to let her feel normal.
There is no part of the day where it’s just… done.
Because it’s not a reset.
It can turn into hours.
Or days.
Or a cycle that repeats again and again.
If you’ve ever wondered what this looks like in real life, especially in the middle of busy activities, I shared more here: Our First Dance Competition After a Type 1 Diabetes Diagnosis
The Moments That Hit the Hardest
I’m sitting at my desk.
Deadlines are piling up.
And I see her numbers dropping.
Do I call?
Do I wait?
What is it really with the lag?
Has she eaten?
Will it come back up?
Or is this the moment I waited too long?
And then—
I’m staring at my phone
while my boss’s boss walks by for the third time.
And I know what it looks like.
Like I’m distracted.
Like I’m not working.
Like I’m not a good employee.
What they don’t see is that I am trying to do both.
I want to be good at my job.
I want to be productive.
I care about my work.
But I cannot choose productivity over my child’s life.
And there are moments where I am forced to choose.
And if I’m being honest… this is also why I am behind more often than I’d like to be.
Not because I don’t care.
Not because I’m not trying.
But because I am constantly splitting myself between two things that both matter.
I shared more about that here: The Things I Keep Putting Off (And Why I Can’t Seem to Catch Up)
No one sees that part.
No one sees the part where I’m trying to decide
between doing my job
and making sure my child is safe.
No one sees the guilt.
Guilt that I’m not there.
Guilt that I’m on my phone.
Guilt that I can’t fully be in either place.
And there’s no time to sit in it.
Because it’s not over.
It’s never just handled and done.
What That Reality Actually Means
This is the part that’s hard to explain.
Because from the outside, it can look like distraction.
Like inconsistency.
Like not fully showing up.
But the truth is—
I am showing up.
In two places at once.
All day.
Every day.
And there is no version of this
where I get to turn one of them off.
She is still a kid.
She doesn’t need comments about what she can or can’t eat.
She doesn’t need to carry the weight of adult fears.
That’s my job.
All we can do is our best.
Every day.
Every decision.
And that’s already more than most people realize.
Behind the scenes, I’m carrying it.
So she doesn’t have to.
photo by Alexandre Moreira
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