I never imagined something as simple as opening a protein bar on a flight would spark such a scene. But when it comes to managing a chronic medical condition, sometimes you have to stand your ground—even when others don’t understand.
I’m Elizabeth, a marketing consultant who spends a lot of time in airports and boardrooms. My career has taken me to more than a dozen cities just this past year, helping businesses reimagine their brands. It’s busy, fulfilling work—and I love it. The only constant companion on these travels, aside from my suitcase, is Type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed at age twelve. For those unfamiliar, T1D is an autoimmune condition in which the body doesn’t produce insulin, the hormone that regulates blood sugar. That means my levels can drop suddenly, and without timely treatment—like a snack or some juice—I could become seriously ill.
I always travel prepared: extra snacks, glucose tablets, my insulin pens, and a continuous glucose monitor to track changes. Usually, it’s seamless. Friends and colleagues understand, and most flight attendants are accommodating.
But not everyone gets it.
Like the family I sat beside on a flight from Chicago to Seattle.
I had just made it to my seat after a hectic morning—4:30 a.m. wake-up call, crowded security lines—and I was already feeling the early signs of low blood sugar: lightheadedness, shaky hands, a little brain fog.
That’s when I reached for my protein bar.
Sitting next to me was a mother with her young son—perhaps around nine—and her husband across the aisle. The boy had headphones and a tablet and seemed content, if slightly fussy.
As I started to unwrap my bar, the mother turned to me with a concerned look.
“Could you not?” she asked quietly. “Our son has sensitivities… smells and sounds can upset him.”
At first, I paused. I wasn’t trying to be disruptive. But my hands were trembling more now, and I needed sugar soon.
“I’m sorry, I have a medical condition,” I explained gently.
She nodded, but pressed, “It’s just a short flight. It would mean a lot if you could wait.”
I hesitated, second-guessing myself. I didn’t want to cause conflict. So I tucked the bar away, hoping the snack cart would come quickly.
But when it finally arrived—nearly 40 minutes into the flight—I was met with another obstacle.
As I asked for a soda and snack box, the father leaned over from across the aisle.
“No food or drinks for this row, please. Our son gets upset.”
The flight attendant paused, looking uncertain.
“My blood sugar is low,” I said, a bit louder this time. “I need to eat. I have Type 1 diabetes.”
Still, the mother interjected again. “He has sensory triggers,” she said. “Tantrums can happen. Please be considerate.”
I realized then: They genuinely expected me not to eat—for the entire flight.
That’s when I spoke up. Clearly, and for everyone to hear.
“I have a medical condition. I *have* to eat. I can’t wait.”
The flight attendant immediately nodded, supportive and understanding. As she handed me the snack and soda, I thanked her.
The mother quietly muttered something about “empathy.” I glanced at the boy—still wearing headphones, still absorbed in his game—and noticed he was eating colorful candies from his tray.
Trying to stay calm, I simply replied, “Empathy goes both ways. I need to manage my health. You manage your child.”
After I ate and my blood sugar stabilized, the rest of the flight passed peacefully. The boy never looked up. The parents said nothing further.
But before I opened my laptop, the mother leaned in once more.
“I just think you could’ve handled it more kindly,” she whispered. “My son has real challenges.”
I gave a measured reply: “And so do I. I respect your son’s needs—but not at the cost of my health. Next time, consider planning ahead, or booking seats that give you more control over his environment. Everyone deserves dignity—including those with invisible conditions.”
The cabin stayed quiet after that.
Here’s what I learned that day: **Advocating for your health isn’t impolite—it’s essential.**
Too often, people with chronic conditions are expected to shrink themselves for the comfort of others. But managing your health is not an inconvenience—it’s a necessity.
Empathy means understanding that needs can coexist. And while we can all try to be accommodating, **no one should be expected to put their safety at risk to avoid making someone uncomfortable.**
So whether you live with a visible condition or an invisible one, let this be a reminder: You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to speak up. And your health matters—no matter where you are, even 30,000 feet in the air.
