What It’s Like to Be the Only Diabetic in the Room

I’ve been thinking about something: Is the mind of a diabetic more narcissistic or more empathetic?

The truth? It’s both—depending on the day. Some days you’re literally surviving your blood sugar, riding the chaos with every cell in your body screaming. On other days, you’re balanced—and you can breathe.

But Type 1 Diabetes brings a kind of daily reinforcement trauma—strong symptoms, lingering shame, regrets—for just trying to live like everyone else.

And with that kind of energy constantly running in the background, it’s hard not to think in a room full of people: “I’m the unique one here. No one else understands.” Not even the people closest to you.

But there’s also this strange understanding that we’re all just balls of energy stuck in physical bodies that sometimes break down under pressure. And that gives us this quiet ability to scan a room and think: “I wonder if they go through things like I do?” That question makes us sensitive to others. It builds empathy. It helps us recognize we all exist on a spectrum of struggle—but we diabetics often sit on a very specific point on that spectrum. And even though we survive every day and work our butts off, deep down we still feel: “If my pancreas doesn’t work… how could I ever feel truly understood?”

That thought? It chips away at your openness. Because your conscious mind starts thinking: “I’m in a rush. A rush to get my life together. So I don’t have to be tired all the time. So I can finally rest. So I can finally love and be loved.”

And while all of that’s happening in the background, what shows up in the front is something simpler:

“I’ve almost died. Multiple times.
I don’t fear death…
So why would I fear what you think of me?”

And yet—we do. We fear not living the life we dream about. Not reaching that version of ourselves we know exists, if only we weren’t so exhausted from surviving.

So in a room full of people with working pancreases, we’re anxious—quietly. We hide it well. We pick who we talk to. We measure who’s safe. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, we find someone who gets it—someone who knows we all have struggles and we’re all just trying to feel seen.

But the further down that spectrum we go, the more we have to think about:

• How we feel
• How we connect
• How we look
• How we present ourselves
• How quickly our blood sugar could drop
• How we’d react emotionally in a room full of non-diabetics

And yet—here’s the silver lining:

We are unique. We are stronger.
We are worth loving. Worth being seen. Worth being understood.

We are Type 1 Diabetics.
And while we look and act like “normal” people—we’re constantly riding an internal roller coaster.

So if you’re one of us—I’m proud of you. I see you. And I’m here.
Feel free to reach out.