My name is Elizabeth, and overall, I love my life.
I’ve built a career I’m proud of as a marketing consultant, even if it means I practically live in airports.
Last year alone, I flew to 14 different cities, helping companies refine their brand strategies. I’ve become a pro at hotel breakfasts, and my frequent flyer miles are piling up.
“Another airport?” my mom laughs when I call. “You’re like a modern nomad.”
She’s not wrong. But I always tell her, “It’s worth it.” And it is.
I’ve created something meaningful—financial independence, professional respect, and a lifestyle I truly enjoy.
There’s just one major complication: I have Type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed at 12. My body doesn’t produce insulin, so I rely on injections and constant monitoring to stay healthy.
If my blood sugar gets too high or too low, things can get serious—fast.
“It’s not a limitation, just a factor to manage,” my doctor told me years ago.
I took that advice to heart. I carry glucose tablets everywhere, set reminders for insulin, and always travel with snacks. I’m careful—but not fearful.
Most people in my life understand. My boss schedules breaks during long meetings.
My friends don’t question it when I stop for a snack. Even flight attendants usually respect my needs when I explain.
But sometimes, people just don’t get it.
Take a flight I took last month from Chicago to Seattle.
I had been up since 4:30 a.m., rushed through security, and boarded with barely a second to spare. By the time I got to my seat, I could feel my blood sugar dropping—lightheaded, shaky hands, the usual red flags.
Next to me sat a woman in her 30s, her husband across the aisle, and their young son in the middle—about nine, eyes glued to a new iPad, with expensive headphones and a scowl that suggested flying coach was beneath him.
“Mom, I wanted the window,” he whined.
She patted his head and sighed, “Next time, sweetie.” He responded by repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him. She offered an apologetic smile to the annoyed passenger but didn’t make him stop.
I ignored it and pulled out my protein bar, needing to act quickly.
Before I could take a bite, the woman leaned over and whispered, “Can you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I paused. “Sorry?”
“The smell, the noise… it sets him off,” she explained, gesturing vaguely.
The kid wasn’t even paying attention, but I hesitated.
She added, “It’s just a short flight.”
Against my better judgment, I put the bar away. I told myself I’d wait for the drink cart. Meanwhile, my blood sugar continued to drop.
Forty minutes in, I finally asked the flight attendant for a Coke and a snack box.
Before she could respond, the dad across the aisle cut in, “Nothing for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant looked confused. “Sir?”
“Our son doesn’t do well with others eating near him,” he said firmly.
I tried to explain, but the mom jumped in. “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
My smartwatch buzzed—my blood sugar was plummeting.
When the flight attendant came back, I tried again, but the mom interrupted: “She’ll have nothing. Our son has sensory triggers. Food upsets him.”
That was it.
Loud enough for nearby rows to hear, I said, “Hi. I have Type 1 diabetes. If I don’t eat something now, I could pass out. So yes, I will be eating.”
The flight attendant instantly understood and handed me the snack box and soda.
“God, it’s always something,” the mom muttered. “Our son has needs, too. It’s called empathy.”
“He’s eating Skittles right now,” I pointed out, nodding toward the candy scattered on his tray.
“That’s different,” she snapped.
I smiled. “You know what else it’s called? Managing your own kid. Not the rest of the plane.”
I downed the soda and snack, and within minutes, felt better, physically and emotionally.
A few minutes later, the mom leaned in and said, “I think you need to understand more about my son’s condition.”
I didn’t flinch. “Lady, I don’t care. I’m going to manage my diabetes however I need. You manage your child however you want. But I’m not risking my health because you can’t handle a tantrum. Book the whole row—or fly private.”
The rest of the flight was silent. The boy didn’t look up once, and the parents never spoke to me again.
That day reminded me: speaking up for your health isn’t rude—it’s necessary. My condition may not be visible, but it’s real. And no one’s comfort is more important than someone else’s safety.
Especially at 30,000 feet.
