Never in my life did I think I’d have to fight just to eat a protein bar on an airplane. But last month, that’s exactly what happened. And it wasn’t because I was being difficult—I was fighting for my health. The way those entitled parents reacted, treating my medical need like some kind of inconvenience, was shocking. What happened next? It left the entire row completely silent.
My name is Elizabeth. I love almost everything about my life. I’ve worked super hard to build a career I’m proud of as a marketing consultant. Sure, it means I’m on the road a lot, sometimes feeling like I live out of a suitcase, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Last year alone, I traveled to 14 different cities all across the country. I was helping businesses rethink their brands and grow. It’s exciting work, and yeah, the frequent flyer miles are a nice bonus. I’ve practically become a hotel breakfast buffet expert.
“Another trip? You’re like a modern-day nomad,” my mom jokes whenever I call her from an airport, her voice warm over the phone.
“It’s worth it,” I tell her with a smile, even when I’m exhausted.
And it really is worth it.
I’m building something meaningful—a future with financial security, respect at work, and the kind of life I’ve dreamed of. Everything is going well… except for one thing I always have to keep in mind—my Type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed when I was twelve years old. That means my pancreas doesn’t make insulin—the hormone that keeps my blood sugar balanced. Without insulin injections and careful monitoring, my blood sugar can go dangerously high or crash low. Either way, it can put me in the hospital.
“It’s just part of who you are,” my endocrinologist told me years ago. “Not a limitation, just a consideration.”
I live by those words. I keep glucose tablets in every purse, set alarms for insulin doses, and always, always pack extra snacks on trips.
My diabetes doesn’t define me, but it demands my attention—especially when I travel.
Thankfully, most people in my life get it.
My boss schedules breaks for me in long meetings. My friends never bat an eye when I need to eat suddenly. Flight attendants usually understand when I ask for ginger ale right away because I’m starting to feel low.
But not everyone understands. Or cares.
Not everyone sees that what looks like a simple snack to them is a medical lifesaver for me.
Like on that flight last month—from Chicago to Seattle.
I had been up since 4:30 a.m. for an early meeting. I rushed through a crazy-long security line at O’Hare and barely made my boarding group. When I finally sank into my aisle seat, I already felt that warning—lightheaded, shaky—the sign my blood sugar was dropping fast.
I was sitting next to a family of three. The mom, probably in her mid-thirties, was right beside me. Her husband was across the aisle, and their son—about nine years old—sat between them. The boy had a brand-new iPad Pro, fancy wireless headphones that looked expensive, and a sour face like he thought flying was the worst thing ever.
“Mom, I wanted the window seat!” he whined, kicking off the trip with a tantrum.
“Next time, sweetie. The nice lady at the counter couldn’t switch our seats,” she said softly, stroking his hair like he was a little prince having a mild inconvenience.
The boy sighed so loudly it felt like the whole plane heard him. Then he kicked the seat in front of him—once, twice, and again.
The man in front spun around, giving the kid a sharp look, but the mom just smiled apologetically and said, “He’s excited about the trip.” No real attempt to stop the kid.
I raised my eyebrows but kept quiet. Pulled out my magazine and tried to ignore the drama.
Live and let live, right?
I thought I could handle it. It was just a three-hour flight after all. How bad could it be?
But then the warning signs on my body got worse. My hands started shaking, my head spinning more. I knew I had to eat—fast.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my protein bar, the one I always carry.
Just as I was about to unwrap it, the woman next to me hissed, “Can you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I froze, protein bar halfway to my mouth. Did I hear that right?
She was staring at me like I’d pulled out something illegal, not a simple snack.
“I’m sorry?” I said, confused.
“The smell. The crinkling. The chewing,” she whispered, as if those sounds might cause a disaster. “It sets him off. Our son has… sensitivities.”
I glanced at the boy. He was still whining about his seatbelt and kicking the tray in front of him. Spoiled? Definitely. But sensitive? Not from what I could tell. He didn’t even notice my protein bar.
“I understand, but I need to—”
“We’d really appreciate it if you didn’t,” she cut me off. “It’s just a short flight.”
I looked down at my trembling hands. My mind screamed to explain that I have Type 1 diabetes and NEED to eat now. But I didn’t. I figured, okay, I’ll wait for the snack cart.
I tucked the bar away and tried to relax, checking my continuous glucose monitor discreetly. The numbers were dropping too fast.
Forty minutes later, the drink cart finally came down the aisle. Relief flooded me.
When the flight attendant got to our row, I smiled and said, “Can I have a Coke and the protein snack box, please?”
Before she finished, the dad across the aisle leaned over and said, “No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant blinked, confused. “Sir?”
“Our son,” he pointed at the boy who was glued to his iPad, “gets upset when others eat around him.”
What? I thought. Are you serious?
I was about to speak up when the mom said, “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
The flight attendant kept moving, uncomfortable but not wanting to get caught in a fight.
I reached for the call button.
Then the dad leaned over again.
“Excuse me? Our son can’t handle other people eating near him. It sets him off. Maybe you could be a decent human and skip the snack, yeah?”
I looked at the family—mom, dad, and kid who hadn’t even glanced up once—and then down at my watch. My blood sugar alarm was screaming.
I needed sugar now.
The flight attendant came back.
The mom whispered urgently, “She can have nothing. Our son has sensory triggers. He sees food and throws fits. You wouldn’t believe the tantrums. Unless you want a screaming child the whole flight, don’t serve her.”
At that moment, I had had enough.
I turned to the flight attendant, loud enough for half the row to hear, “Hi. I have Type 1 diabetes. If I don’t eat something right now, I could pass out or end up in the hospital. So yes, I will be eating. Thank you.”
Heads turned.
People nearby looked up.
One older woman across the aisle gasped and stared at the parents like they’d just said something awful.
The flight attendant’s face changed instantly. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that for you right away.”
The mom rolled her eyes and muttered, “God, it’s always something with people. My son has needs, too! He doesn’t like seeing food he can’t have. It’s called empathy.”
I smiled sweetly as I took my snack box and soda from the attendant. “You know what else it’s called? Managing your own kid, not the whole cabin.”
I devoured the crackers and cheese, drank my soda, and felt my blood sugar start to rise. The relief was instant—both in my body and my mind.
Five minutes later, just as I opened my laptop to work, the mom leaned toward me again.
“I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition,” she said with a tight smile.
I didn’t flinch.
“Lady,” I said loud and clear, “I don’t care. I’m going to manage my Type 1 diabetes however I need. You can manage your tantrum-prone prince however you want. I’m not risking my health because you can’t handle a meltdown. Maybe book the whole row next time. Or better yet, fly private.”
The silence that followed was golden.
The rest of the flight passed without any more drama. The boy never looked up from his game, didn’t notice anyone eating, and the parents didn’t say another word to me.
That day, sitting in that cramped airplane seat, I learned something important.
Standing up for your health isn’t rude. It’s necessary.
Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to be firm when others try to dismiss your needs.
My diabetes isn’t visible, but it’s very real—and I have every right to take care of it properly.
No one’s comfort is more important than someone’s health. And that’s a lesson we should all remember—whether we’re 30,000 feet in the air or standing firmly on the ground.
