My daughter, Allison, has lived with type 1 diabetes since she was four.
By nine, she wore a continuous glucose monitor, counted carbohydrates better than most adults, and always carried something sugary in case her blood sugar dropped.
She was also heavier than some children her age.
Lately, she’d started noticing.
Kids at school had made comments.
A girl in her dance class had asked why her stomach looked different.
She’d stopped asking for fitted clothes and started choosing oversized hoodies whenever she could.
I saw the little girl who had spent years enduring finger pricks, insulin injections, sleepless nights, and hospital visits without ever complaining.
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