“10 more on this side! Keep going!”

The instructor urged us on. It was halfway through the boot camp class, and today we were outside using stepping blocks, jumping up and down, side to side. 

My body was shaking, I was getting light headed. “It’s just the heat,” I thought, “Your body is just getting tired. Don’t give up now.” I encouraged myself, trying to push through. But this feeling wasn’t exhaustion, it was something different. 

As everyone continued with their workout, I pulled out my glucose meter and tested my finger. 52. Once I stopped, the low hit me full force. I rummaged through my bag looking for my fruit snacks. I couldn’t find them, but remembered I have a whole box in my car. I walked silently behind the class towards my car, ignoring the questioning looks. I grabbed a couple packets and poured the contents in my mouth as I headed back to my mat.

The instructor had moved on to the next exercise. I stood there awkwardly, waiting for my blood sugar to come back up so I could join back with the class. I don’t usually get self conscious while treating a low, but this time I did. I was sure everyone was wondering why I had suddenly stopped exercising, why I was standing there while everyone continued to jump around. When I tried to join back in, my body felt weak and dizzy. I couldn’t do it, I knew I would just have to wait it out. The class is only an hour, and I knew I would be wasting 10-15 minutes waiting to feel better. And while I know this is necessary, I was mad. I was mad that I was missing part of a workout that I wanted to do, that I paid to do. I was mad at how disruptive my diabetes can be. I was mad that I was being forced to eat sugar that I just worked so hard to burn off. And I was mad that my diabetes had singled me out once again.

I sat there as the instructor walked over to ask if I was okay. 

“I have type 1 diabetes and my blood sugar went low. I’m fine but I just have to wait for it to come back up.” My voice was full of emotion. I don’t know why, but this particular low had made me feel vulnerable. I was afraid that the instructor wouldn’t understand. I was fine, I just needed time, but I’m strong and capable. I didn’t want her to underestimate me.

But the instructor looked at me and said something that made me confident that she understood.

“My son has type 1 diabetes.”

I looked at her and smiled, instantly relieved. As a parent of a T1D, I knew she got it, and I knew I was in good hands.