Entry #11 • November 4th, 2025

A Late Monday Night

11:17 p.m., Monday night, November 3rd.

I had already resigned myself to the idea that there wouldn’t be a Just Me entry this week. The evening I usually dedicate to writing, I spent with a friend instead. She was embarking on a big life change (the next day), and an ice cream night was in order.

And while I love to work—especially late at night—I also love spending time with people I care about. Quality time (and words of affirmation) are my two primary love languages. (Hmmm, shocker, I’m sure, to those of you who know me…not. I’m constantly like, “Hey, wanna have a coffee date? Want to tell me how good of a job I’m doing?” Yep. Quality time. Words of affirmation. Guilty. As. Charged.)

I had three main tasks to work through today:

1. Filter through my email inbox (not for the faint of heart).
2. Get my husband’s Spanish class schedule laid out for next semester so we can open enrollment on Wednesday. (I manage the admin side of his business, Spanish Now.)
3. Write a Just Me entry, if time allowed.

Well, time did not allow. My inbox took an inordinate amount of time. I’d get through two emails, only to have three more pop up; it felt like that all day, every time I made progress. Then the Spanish Now work took longer than I expected. (My toxic trait: terrible at estimating how long things actually take.)

But now here I am: my inbox in a manageable state, Spanish Now as ready as it can be before Wednesday, and still forty-five minutes before I typically clock out. Tuesdays are one of my days off, so I won’t be back at work until Wednesday. I want to tie up as many loose ends as I can before then.

And here I am…thinking I can bang out an entry and edit it and plug it into the email platform all before I head home. I started this knowing I can’t actually do that in forty-five minutes...that I’d be here later if I went down this path.

I’m ten minutes into typing, and I’m not sure I’ve even said anything yet. Hahaha.

When the Gray Skies Start to Roll Back

Many of you have been so kind to check in and see how I’m doing. Man…that is so kind. So thoughtful. So appreciated.

Lately, my replies have slowly shifted to, “Good. I feel like it’s getting lighter. It feels like the haze is lifting.” I started to feel this a few weeks ago (I mentioned it in JM#7) and felt cautiously optimistic—too afraid the carpet might be ripped out from under me.

But now I think it’s safe to say: the gray skies are starting to roll back.

I can’t thank you, Dear Reader, enough for being here. If you were one of the ones who emailed me, checked in, stopped by, texted, or sent an actual letter in the mail—thank you. You truly don’t know the depth of your impact.

And to you, Dear Reader, who quietly sits on the other side of this screen and simply reads—I’m just as grateful. While you may feel invisible, the metrics show these emails have been received, and received well.

This series has become such a tangible outlet for me to use as I process the events in my life. And for the blasted achiever in me, yes...the metrics matter a little. I didn’t hinge my healing on them, but they’ve been a gentle nod from you: keep going, Megan. So thank you, even if you are “just a Dear Reader.”

Kindness in a White Coat

Today—the day you’re reading this, Tuesday—is a big day. We have our virtual training for my son’s new pump. I’m hopeful he can start using it right away after the training. He’s been so eager for this change and improvement in his new life. I’m truly over the moon that we’re finally at this point.

Just two weeks ago, we met with his new care provider: Dr. Forlenza, from the Barbara Davis Center, the Type 1 Diabetes clinic that oversees care for all kids in Colorado. He’s based in Denver but assigned to all the telehealth appointments on this side of the state, which means we will meet virtually every three months and no longer make regular trips to Denver.

Our first meeting with him the other week was…incredible. What an absolutely amazing doctor.

Dr. Forlenza has the mind of a genius. And if you’ve ever talked with someone who has the mind of a genius…whew. It can be a tough conversation to track with when you’re just a regular ol’ peasant like me. They speak at such a high level you’re nodding along, pretending you understand, while your brain is like, “Wait—what?”

For a genius to really connect with us 'commonfolk', they’ve got to have some next-level people skills and a good dose of self-awareness.

Dr. Forlenza is all that and a bag of popcorn. Or wait…is that the phrase? All that and a bag of chips? Hahaha…I think it’s chips. I don’t know. Either way, he’s the GOAT. What an incredibly rewarding appointment that was.

He took time to get to know my son—to learn what he’s into and what he enjoys learning on his own. As he began unpacking this diagnosis and its impact, he didn’t lecture. He asked questions. Then more questions.

He’d say things like, “So how did you manage that situation?” and then let my son explain what he did. He’d congratulate him on his decision, ask how he came to that conclusion, and never once scold or correct—just guided him with curiosity. I could take about a hundred pages out of his leadership book, my goodness.

He also took time to explore how this disease affects every detail of my son’s daily life. Our first round of education at Dallas Children’s felt like elementary school—the kind of information you need just to survive once you leave the hospital. (Not sarcastic. Literally how not to die, because you’re now performing the very important job of an invisible organ you probably never thought about until it stopped working.)

When we got home and started working with the Barbara Davis Center, it felt like middle school. This appointment with Dr. Forlenza? High school.

What he shared with us is something we couldn’t have absorbed five months ago. There’s so much to this disease—so much. I’m grateful for the stair-step process that’s brought us here. It’s probably part of why the haze is lifting. We’re starting to get a handle on it, one step at a time.

God has dealt so kindly with me. I’m constantly humbled by His overwhelming kindness. No one is exempt from difficulty in life. We will all have battles to endure…but Hope* comes in the morning.

And maybe that’s what this past week has been—a little sliver of morning light after a long night.

I know this is a shorter entry, but I need to sleep 😂 *I have more to share (shocker), but it’ll have to wait for a future entry.

Thanks for reading, always.

—Just Me[gan]