Hi, I’m a type one diabetic. I’m also a single mom. I’m also (very tired) and currently unable to work. Which means I’m currently living in this strange limbo between surviving and super surviving, like a superhero who keeps misplacing her cape—and her blood sugar monitor.
Managing diabetes is like playing Jenga during an earthquake. Blood sugars rise and fall without notice. Insulin works—until it doesn't. Every snack is a calculated risk. Every morning starts with a finger prick and a prayer. And the constant worry is like a background app running in my brain, draining energy I don’t even have. Don't get me started with the buzzes, alarms and malfunctions of one of the zillion devices I am anchored to.
Add in the joys (and holy terror) of being a single mom, and you’ve got a sitcom that’s missing its laugh track. My children are my heartbeat, my once tiny best friends are growing into men, my reason for pushing through when I want to throw a tantrum in the self checkout of the Whole Foods and why do I shop anywhere but Trader Joes!
I want to work. I want to feel like I’m doing something. But right now, my body says “nope.” My eyes say "nope" My health has planted me firmly on the sidelines, and some days that makes me feel worthless. Like I’m not contributing. Like I’m falling behind while everyone else gets to keep running.
We still have adventures—kitchen table meal planning, living room gaming tournaments, deep conversations about girls and grades. But there's quiet grief behind every cancelled plan. My boys will be fourteen in a few months, and I worry they miss the old me—the one who could grab the keys without a care in the world. Now biding my time until one of them drive.
The diagnosis of my going blind came with a list of restrictions, but the driving ban felt most devastating. Not just because I loved driving, nothing calmed me but a drive around the Hood Canal or the taking the long way home to go past my grandparents farm in Kingston, the lump that every time I would drive south Kingston road, a lump chocking me deep in my throat,—I was anxious about merging and parallel parking. But because driving meant possibility. It meant being able to respond to their growing need for experiences beyond our walls.
Now our adventures require more planning, more asking for help. I've had to swallow my pride and text other parents, accept rides that feel like charity. I've watched my boys' faces when I say no to simple things—the mall with friends, that new bubble tea place everyone's talking about, to glass beach to discover and hunt for sea glass.
I live with my parents now. They’ve opened their home, their hearts, and occasionally, their stash of ice cream sandwiches when I hit a low. I’m deeply grateful—and also, deeply terrified.
They are aging. I see it in their slower steps, the new medications, the quiet sighs they try to hide when they sit down after a long day of helping me raise my kids while also quietly helping me survive. I’m watching the people who once seemed indestructible show signs of wear and time, and I don’t know how to carry that.
There’s a strange ache in watching your parents soften and slow while your children grow sharper and faster. I’m the in-between, stretched like a fraying rope, afraid of what happens when one end gives out.
But here's what I'm learning: adventure was never about the destination. It was about the space we created together, conversations in the in-between moments. And that essence—the togetherness, the willingness to explore—doesn't actually require a car.
Our kitchen has became a laboratory for cooking challenges they've seen online. We take walking adventures to the pool, and somehow fifteen minutes becomes an hour-long conversation about everything—school drama, future dreams, what they really think about having diabetes that has taken every aspect of our lives. That last drive was the last golf lesson for one son, and the last basketball game we had gone to that last Saturday would be the others last activity they loved.
Still, this chokehold of grief catches me off guard. When I see other families loading up for spontaneous adventures, when their friends' moms can just say "hop in" while I have to check if an Uber can grab us or figure out what friend I haven't had to ask to take us somewhere in a week or two.
The hardest part isn't practical limitations. It's feeling like I'm failing them during these crucial years when mobility means independence. I worry my limitations are holding them back.
But then I watch them problem-solving with me—researching bus routes, organizing group rides—and realize maybe I'm underestimating them. Maybe they're adapting, finding creative solutions. Maybe watching me navigate chronic illness is teaching them resilience and not letting circumstances define possibilities.
The boys still pile into things, just not cars. They pile into my bed for late-night talks about crushes and college dreams. They still create chaos—in the kitchen trying to whip the dishtowel to hurt one another, in the backyard playing with the tetherball . They still share music through Spotify playlists and living room concerts. We still dance in the kitchen.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe the real adventure was never about places we went but how we went there together. Maybe it's learning to find that same spirit in whatever circumstances we're given.
Our story isn't ending—it's being written in a different language now, one that includes bus schedules and the kind of deep conversations that happen when you have time to really listen. And maybe that's exactly the adventure we were meant to have.
So here I am—high blood sugar, low energy, big love, even bigger fears—doing my best. I joke because humor keeps me afloat. I write because words remind me I’m still here, still kicking, still showing up. Even if today’s win is just brushing my hair and not accidentally giving my kid my Lantus pen instead of their juice box. To all the moms, the diabetics, the fighters stuck in in-between places—you’re not alone. We’re in this weird, beautiful, tough mess together.
