I was in the middle of my vacation, texting a diabetic who I’ve completely fallen for—not just because we both stab ourselves daily and drink water like it’s holy—but because of our mental similarities and shared struggles in this wild T1D life. She lives across the world, in the opposite time zone, but somehow her words still feel like sunrise.
I walked barefoot along Pismo Beach, waves washing over my ankles, trying to rinse off trauma like sunscreen gone sticky. I had come to the coast to escape pain, but it turns out, T1D doesn’t take PTO.
As I strolled alone, I prayed—asking God to help me walk with pure intentions and to guide me toward peace. A mother and daughter passed me, smiling and barefoot, pausing to wonder about the tiny purple sea creatures dotting the sand. I guessed jellyfish. The daughter googled it. Jellyfish confirmed. That small moment of kindness lifted my heart, but it wasn’t the highlight of the trip.
The highlight was brief, awkward, and absolutely beautiful.
I saw two college-aged women taking photos of each other on the beach. One of them had a Dexcom on her arm. That tiny patch of adhesive hit me like a lightning bolt of belonging. I didn’t say a word until the picture was snapped. Then, nervously, I asked:
“Sorry for interrupting, but… could you take a photo of me? I’ll take one of you two together in return.”
They smiled politely and said they didn’t need help, but then I added with a grin:
“I see you’ve got a Dexcom. Represent. I’ve got mine, too.”
And BOOM. Connection.
Her smile lit up like a low blood sugar alert. We both knew the struggle—the snacks, the scans, the mental math of meals. She understood me without a single breakdown explanation. Her friend took a few great shots of me and afterward I asked the golden diabetic greeting:
“So… how’s your A1C?”
She replied the classic way:
“Not as low as I hoped.”
And I said what I’ve always needed to hear:
“I get it. Give yourself rest. You deserve it. At least it’s not in the double digits.”
I told her I write about all this on my blog. I forgot to give her the name, but I couldn’t just walk away without a shot at keeping that moment alive. So I ran back, high-kneeing through the sand like an awkward anime character, breathless but determined:
“It’s called Pancreas on Vacation. Check out my Instagram!”
She laughed. “That’s so funny—and really good! I might tag my post with that.”
And in that short exchange, I realized something powerful:
We, as diabetics, connect on a level most people can’t see.
We’re not broken. We’re built differently. Our resilience is unmatched. And when we fall for one another, we bring more than love—we bring full-body empathy. A partner who knows the signs. Who carries sugar. Who understands the emotional rollercoaster. A partner who gets the panic when the Dexcom reads 55 and dropping.
There are actually stories and articles that back this up, too:
- Diabetics dating each other can reduce stress and improve mutual understanding: diabetes.org.uk story
- It’s hard for non-diabetics to fully get what we go through: DiaTribe article on dating with diabetes
- And let’s not forget how mental health and mood shifts from glucose swings affect relationships too: Medical News Today
So yes—I started this blog for people like us. To connect. To walk side-by-side. To be seen in the very places we usually hide.
If you’ve got diabetes and feel like no one understands—you’re wrong. I do. And so do thousands of others. We are not rare. We’re radiant.
Let’s link up. Let’s lift each other. Let’s date, flirt, fight lows, and share snacks like the unstoppable sweet warriors we are.
I love you. I see you. I understand.
— Christain, Pancreas on Vacation
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