The Man Behind the Monitor
I spent 15 years hiding my Type 1 Diabetes, not from doctors or family, but from classmates, teachers, and friends.
I was diagnosed in the summer of 2002. I was just a kid, not fully able to grasp what was happening to me, or, better yet, what diabetes even was. From the moment I entered South Georgia Medical Center, I knew my life was about to change dramatically. I was extremely sick and had to undergo a series of tests. After a few days and learning the bare basics of Juvenile Diabetes, I left that hospital with a supply of insulin, needles, and new instructions for how to live. I also made a silent promise to myself: don’t let anyone find out. I didn’t want to be labeled as weak or incapable.
And for the next 15 years, I kept that promise.
Every blood sugar check, every insulin dose, every dizzy spell in school, I handled it all alone. I became an expert at secrecy, taking insulin in bathroom stalls, slipping glucose tabs into my mouth under the desk, pretending I just "wasn't hungry" when my blood sugar dropped and I felt faint. I trained myself to smile through the shakiness, the frustration, and the shame I didn't yet have words for. Even when I went to the nurse’s office, I told people I was going to the restroom.
Yes, my teachers knew I had Type 1 Diabetes, but my goal was to make them forget, because I was trying to forget too.
Living with diabetes is already a full-time job. Hiding it turns it into a 24/7 surveillance state, where the biggest threat isn't just your blood sugar dropping dangerously low, but someone seeing you be vulnerable.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that I wasn't just hiding my diagnosis, I was also living inside the Man Box. I didn't have the language for it then, but I had internalized the belief that to be a man meant being strong, silent, and self-reliant. Showing pain or asking for help, especially around something invisible like a chronic illness, made me less of a man. So I toughed it out. I made myself small. And I called it strength.
What I didn’t realize back then was how much that secrecy was taking a toll on my mental health. I carried a constant fear of being "found out." I internalized the idea that my condition was a burden, something to be ashamed of. I didn't want pity. I didn’t want to be treated differently. But in trying so hard to be "normal,” I became anxious, isolated, and emotionally exhausted.
No one teaches you how to manage the mental health side of chronic illness. I wish they did.
Eventually, something broke. Not loudly, but in a quiet, personal moment of exhaustion. I was tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of juggling my survival with silence. Tired of pretending this wasn't a big part of my life.
So I started telling the truth.First to friends. Then to coworkers. Then to anyone who would listen. And what I found wasn't shame, it was power.
Power in connection. Power in advocacy. Power in raising my voice so others wouldn’t have to feel what I felt for so long. I realized I wasn’t alone. I began meeting people living with diabetes from all over who had the same struggles and were going through similar experiences. Silence had kept me from the community I so desperately needed.
From that moment forward, I began speaking publicly about my journey with Type 1 D iabetes, and advocating for equity in care and access to supplies.
Because while my story is personal, the struggle for affordable insulin, especially when you don’t have insurance to cover life-saving medication, is universal. I lived that reality for a long time. On top of that, the need for culturally competent care is urgent. These are deeply political issues, and they affect millions.
No one should have to ration insulin.
No one should feel like they have to hide.
No one should feel alone in this.
Speaking up matters because the emotional toll of diabetes is just as real as the physical one. It deserves to be seen, heard, and cared for. I’ve been there. I’m still there. And I’m not hiding anymore.