The Day Started Like Every Other Competition Day
Yesterday was our first full dance competition of the season.
Three of my kids were dancing—
8’s first competition ever,
6’s first of the season,
and 7 with six routines, including back-to-back performances.
It was a long day.
Busy. Loud. Chaotic.
The kind of day dance moms expect.
What I didn’t expect…
was how fast everything could shift in a matter of minutes.
The Six Minutes I Can’t Stop Replaying
I woke up at 6:30am the next morning, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.
Not because of the whole day.
Because of six minutes.
Six minutes where everything we planned for still went wrong.
Six minutes where my daughter’s blood sugar dropped right before she went on stage… and I couldn’t get to her fast enough.
And now I can’t stop asking myself—
What should I have done differently?
When the Numbers Didn’t Make Sense
I had just sat down.
Her routine was coming up in a few dances.
I looked at my phone and saw the notification from her Dexcom.
NO DATA.
I refreshed it.
And then it hit me all at once.
She was in the 90s… with a downward arrow… about to go on stage.
That’s not safe.
Not when you’re about to perform.
Not with acro.
Not when it can drop fast and you don’t know how long it’s already been trending that way.
She had just been at 160 before I left her.
But I couldn’t even remember the last time her numbers updated. There’s always that lag—sometimes up to 10 minutes—and when every second matters, 10 minutes feels like forever.
Moving Before I Had a Plan
I stood up immediately.
I was already moving before I had a full plan, just trying to figure out the fastest way to get out of the audience without disturbing everyone around me.
We were in a ballroom with easy access to backstage—not a traditional auditorium—and for the first time all day, I was actually grateful for that.
I was scanning for her while grabbing the Starburst out of my pocket, already knowing it wasn’t going to be enough if she was dropping fast.
I couldn’t find a teacher.
I was looking for the studio owner.
At the same time, I knew I needed to confirm her number.
I didn’t have time to guess.
The Moment It Became Real
I found her.
I told her to start drinking a regular soda we had in our lunch bag while I got her finger pricked.
She started downing it.
92
The Dexcom wasn’t wrong.
The Plan… With No One There
I ran her back to her dad backstage.
One of the girls came up and told her to line up.
I remember saying her blood sugar was too low, that it wasn’t safe, and at the same time trying to find someone—anyone—from the studio.
We had a plan for this.
If she went low, they would push the routine.
That was the plan.
But no one was there.
I ran back out to the audience to find the studio owner.
I was trying to explain quickly—
She’s low.
She’s dropping.
It’s not safe.
And while I was saying all of that…
They called her routine.
And she wasn’t with them.
I remember looking over at my husband backstage.
I don’t even know what happened in those seconds.
I just know that minutes later—
she ran on stage.
Late.
One of the biggest no-no’s.
Watching It Happen Anyway
She looked horrible.
Shaky. Pale. Miserable.
And I was sitting next to the studio owner just… apologizing.
Over and over.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I feel so bad.”
All I could think about was the other girls. The other parents.
Did we just ruin their chances?
Did I mess this up for everyone?
This is the part no one really talks about—the mental load that hits all at once in moments like this. I’ve tried to put words to that before, because it doesn’t just happen here.
The Part No One Talks About
She dropped into the 70s after that routine.
We had to throw everything at it.
The soda she already drank.
A protein drink.
Half a soft pretzel.
A hard boiled egg.
And we didn’t have time to sit in it.
She had another routine.
There was no time to process. No time to breathe.
We had to get her back up and send her back out.
Fix It Fast… There’s No Time to Feel It
She pulled it together.
She went back on stage.
And she did great.
Like nothing had just happened.
And Then It Happened Again
And then the alarm went off again.
Awards were about to start.
She was dropping again.
She grabbed a juice box and drank it as fast as she could.
The stage lights weren’t helping.
During the 45 minutes of awards, we were silencing alarms over and over.
That juice box didn’t even bring her up enough to stop them.
We Did Everything Right… And It Still Went Wrong
She had at least 200 carbs yesterday—uncovered.
Her pump was in activity mode.
She was snacking all day.
We paired protein with everything.
We did everything right.
And it still went wrong.
This is the part of managing Type 1 that’s hard to explain—you can do everything right and still end up here. I’ve shared more about that side of it before.
The Part That Gets Me the Most
I found out later that my husband had talked to a competition worker.
If we had said something to her, she would have pulled the routine for a few numbers.
No problem.
That was the plan.
But it’s been drilled into us—
Don’t talk to competition staff.
Everything goes through the studio.
So we followed the rules.
And in the moment we needed support…
no one was there.
The Guilt That Doesn’t Let Go
I woke up the next morning with guilt sitting in my chest.
What should I have done differently?
Should I have spoken up anyway?
Should I have ignored the “rules”?
Should I have been in a different place at a different time?
How am I supposed to be in three places at once?
The Questions I Hate Even Having
And now the thoughts I hate the most are creeping in.
Do I pull her next year?
Do I make her do less?
Even though she loves it?
Even though she worked so hard to be there?
Why does it feel like my child has to go without because she’s diabetic?
Why does my brain go there?
The Question I Can’t Shake
Why is it so easy to believe every other child deserves to take up space…
but mine has to prove she does?
There Isn’t a Clean Ending to This
I don’t have one.
She’s okay.
She made it through.
She danced her heart out.
But those six minutes?
They’re still sitting with me.
And I don’t think I’m the only one who’s ever felt that.
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