I’m Elizabeth, a marketing consultant constantly on the move. Last month, I boarded a flight from Chicago to Seattle after a brutal morning—early meetings, airport chaos, and barely any food. As someone with Type 1 diabetes, I’m always vigilant about my blood sugar. I felt the familiar dizziness creeping in and reached for a protein bar. That’s when the woman beside me leaned over and said, “Please don’t eat that. My son might throw a tantrum.” I blinked, stunned. Her son, glued to his iPad and munching Skittles, didn’t even glance at me.
I tried to explain my condition, but she cut me off. “He has sensory issues. Smells trigger him.” Her husband chimed in, demanding I wait until the flight ended. I hesitated, hoping to avoid conflict, but my blood sugar was dropping fast. I’ve lived with diabetes since I was twelve. It’s not a choice—it’s survival. I’ve trained myself to be discreet, respectful, and prepared. But this wasn’t about courtesy. It was about control. And I wasn’t going to let entitled strangers jeopardize my health.
When the drink cart rolled around, I asked for ginger ale. The father blocked the aisle. “No food or drinks in this row,” he told the flight attendant. She looked torn, unsure what to do. I felt my hands shake. My vision blurred. I knew I was minutes from a dangerous crash. So I did what I had to—I raised my voice. “I have Type 1 diabetes. I need sugar now. This isn’t optional.” The cabin went silent. The flight attendant nodded and handed me the drink.
I opened my protein bar and took a bite. The mother gasped, as if I’d committed a crime. “You don’t understand his needs,” she hissed. I turned to her calmly. “And you clearly don’t understand mine.” Her son didn’t flinch. He kept tapping his screen, oblivious. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was trying to stay alive. The other passengers began to murmur. A woman across the aisle gave me a thumbs-up. The couple shrank into their seats, suddenly quiet.
For the rest of the flight, I ate slowly, deliberately. I monitored my levels, sipped my drink, and kept my cool. The mother tried once more to “educate” me about her son’s sensitivities. I stopped her. “Managing your child doesn’t mean managing the entire cabin,” I said. She blinked, speechless. I wasn’t angry—I was exhausted. I’d spent years learning how to advocate for myself. This was just another test. And I passed it with grace and fire.
When we landed, the couple rushed off without a word. A few passengers smiled at me as they left. One man whispered, “Good for you.” I smiled back. I hadn’t just protected my health—I’d reminded everyone that boundaries matter. That empathy goes both ways. That sometimes, the quietest victories are the most powerful. I didn’t need applause. I needed glucose. And I got it.
Living with diabetes means constant vigilance. It means educating others, even when they don’t want to listen. But it also means standing firm. I won’t apologize for taking care of myself. I won’t shrink to accommodate someone else’s entitlement. That day on the plane, I didn’t just eat—I reclaimed my space. And I’ll keep doing it, one flight at a time.
