Entry #3 • August 26th, 2025

So This Is Where It Began

If there were a theme song for my feelings these past couple of months…it would be this one. Shooo-wee. Please, give that a click and just listen for about 20 seconds.

This space feels like a quiet corner of the internet where I can start to unpack it all. And before I go any further, let me preface: life happens. To all of us. None of us are exempt. I also know I am not obligated to share any of this with you. But over the years—through the blessing of connecting with so many moms at Colorado Baby—I’ve learned that sharing our stories can help someone else feel less alone. If opening up here encourages even one person, then I’m willing to put myself out there. Because this life I live is not just my own. I truly believe our lives are interwoven in ways we can’t even begin to grasp, and telling our stories ripples out more than we realize. So, Dear Reader, thank you for being a receptive audience. Your listening makes the hard and vulnerable…possible.

Imagine this for a moment, because maybe you’ve been there too:

You’ve made the most intentional choices for your child. You’ve researched, prayed, asked advice, and landed on the best decisions for your family. From pregnancy forward, it’s a never-ending series of choices: what to eat, how to sleep, where to give birth, what postpartum will look like. Then once baby arrives—cloth or disposable diapers? Sunscreen, lotion, soaps? When and how to introduce food? Vaccines—what’s your family’s path? Illness—treat the fever or ride it out? It’s a constant barrage, and you do the best you can with your values, your lived experience, and the counsel you trust.

And despite all that intention…sometimes the world flips upside down anyway.

I’m not the first to walk through it, and I won’t be the last. I know many of you have shared your own heartbreaking stories—times when, despite all your careful preparation, life still blindsided you. That fragility is real. Some of you know it intimately. I know it too. This is not my first taste of it, and likely not my last.

If that’s you, please know: I see you. My heart is knit to yours, if you’ll let it be. I know the grief, the pain, the loss. I know the anger and frustration. I know the disappointment of it all. There’s no trophy for who has endured the worst, but I know some of you have carried far heavier loads than mine. Please hear me: I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what you’ve had to walk through. My inbox is open. My literal door at the shop is open. Say the word and I’ll sit with you. You are not alone.

Before I dive into the story itself, one quick note: this centers on one of my kids, but I’m not naming which. He knows I’m sharing this and has given me the okay, but I want to protect his space here. Eventually he may want it to be more public—that will be his choice. For now, I’m carrying it carefully and sharing only from my side of the story.

The Hard Hand We Were Dealt

My son has always been the picture of health. Fit, strong, resilient—barely more than a few sniffles and stomach bugs his whole life. He’s an athlete through and through, and if you’ll let me brag a moment, a good one. Basketball, track, cross country…he loves them all, and he shines.

But as we’ve learned these past months, sometimes your child is simply dealt a hard hand. Not because of you. Not because of them. Not because of poor choices. Not because they ate Cheez-Its, or didn’t wear the “right” sunscreen, or were born at home, or by c-section, or because you breastfed or formula-fed. Not because their first food was rice cereal or avocado. Not because they potty-trained at 18 months or 3 years.

No. Sometimes it’s just life. Sometimes things don’t go the way you planned, even though you did everything “right” (whatever right even means).

And sometimes your child lands in a terrifying place—because a very important organ in their body suddenly quits. Without it, your child hovers at death’s door. And it happens in a sneaky way you’d never expect or see coming. One day life is normal. The next you’re in the ER, staring down life-altering news.

While we were on the road to Mexico for our long-anticipated family trip this past June, I started piecing together the symptoms my son had been having. Each one on its own could be explained away—easily. But stuck together in the van for ten hours, I began to connect the dots. Thankfully, I could text a trusted medical professional as we drove.

You know that mom instinct—the deep sense that something just isn’t right? That’s where I was on Day One of driving. I couldn’t put my finger on it, because every symptom was so…ordinary. Simple. Easy to dismiss. But together, they gnawed at me. One of the professionals I was texting asked a few pointed questions, then told me to keep one possibility in the back of my mind and watch closely for it.

The next evening, we pulled into Dallas to spend a few days visiting friends and family before heading into Mexico. That night my sister-in-law, who happens to be a doctor, sat with my son and tried to puzzle it out. We all agreed he needed fluids, so we planned to take him to urgent care in the morning.

But when I went to bed, I couldn’t shake what the other doctor had suggested. Out of caution, I Googled the disease he’d mentioned. As I scrolled the list of symptoms, my heart sank—my son had nearly every single one. We were far beyond “just needing fluids.”

The next morning my husband handed me the number of a local urgent care. I shook my head: “I think we’re past that.” When he pressed me, I told him what I’d read the night before. Still, neither of us fully grasped how serious it was. You don’t know what you don’t know. I called urgent care anyway, explained what I feared, and the receptionist immediately said, “Oh no—we can’t treat that. You’ll need the ER.”

That was the clarity I needed. The last thing I wanted was to bounce around unfamiliar providers while far from home. But Dallas is huge—where would we even go? On top of it all, I knew our insurance complications would make things harder. I stood there frozen, overwhelmed, but knowing he needed care urgently.

So I reached out to another trusted medical professional back home, a retired pediatrician who knew my family well and many years ago had practiced in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. I texted her the list of symptoms and my suspicion. Within two minutes, my phone rang.

“Megan,” she said firmly, “listen carefully. Your boy is very, very sick. You need to load him up and drive straight to Dallas Children’s ER. This isn’t something you can wait on. This is life or death. You need to go—now.”

I thanked her, hung up, and we started packing the van. That call was exactly what I needed. I already knew it was serious, but I had felt so paralyzed—not knowing where to turn in a city that wasn’t mine.

Let me pause for a second, because this still gives me chills. Just six days before we left, that same pediatrician had walked into my store out of the blue. I hadn’t seen her in more than a year. We chatted, I told her we’d be traveling through Dallas, and she lit up when I mentioned we’d see Elijah, my cousin’s son who lived with us in 2018—she had been his doctor then. And now, here she was, speaking into this exact moment. That’s not random. That’s God.

One more note: though this situation was dire, my son didn’t “look” critical. That’s what made it so deceptive. He was coherent, talking normally, walking around (though lethargic). He didn’t appear to be at death’s door. But with this disease, the decline is sneaky. You don’t realize how close to the edge you are…until you’re right there.

Learning How to Keep Him Alive

After hanging up with her, I told my husband what she’d said. He got the other kids settled with the family friends we were staying with while I focused on getting our son ready for the hospital. I packed my bag knowing—we weren’t going home that night. Probably not for days. Then we loaded into the van and started the 35-minute drive to Children’s ER.

Fifteen minutes out, the pediatrician called again. “Are you on your way?” she asked. I told her we were almost there. Her voice was steady, calm, but weighty: “Megan, I called the hospital and told them you’re coming. They know why. In medical terms, you’re ‘coming in hot.’ There’s going to be a lot of action very quickly when you arrive. Don’t be scared.”

When we pulled up, she was right. They rushed us through check-in—urine sample, vitals, the bare minimum—and then straight into a room with: nurses, techs, doctors, and residents ready for us. At least eight people were in that room with us. It was a whirlwind of IVs, monitors, and rapid-fire questions. And then, words meant to steady us: “You’ve done nothing wrong. This is how most parents find out. Kids come in just like this. We’re so sorry you’re learning this far from home, at the start of your family trip.”

They told us everything was going to be fine. Different, yes. But he’d still be able to live a full life, do the things he loves. We’d just have to learn a new way to do it. The doctors kept repeating that word—manage. He would be able to “manage” this disease.

After about three hours in that little ER room, they moved us upstairs. Two days we’d spend there. The doctors and nurses kept telling him he’d still run, play, compete…but that life would look a little different now. At one point, when we were alone, he asked quietly, “What do they mean by ‘manage’?”

My boy didn’t yet understand that we weren’t in the hospital for a weird illness that would pass. We were there because his whole reality had just shifted. He would carry this for life. But in that moment, God gave me a whisper of wisdom: preserve his innocence, if only for a few hours longer. I told him gently it wasn’t like the flu—there’d be more involved, but the doctors would explain later. I wanted to hold that burden of knowledge a little longer, give him a reprieve before he had to bear it too.

Crash Course in a New Reality

The next day—after a long night of constant pokes, checks, and monitors—we were thrown headfirst into education. A specialist sat down and explained this new reality in simple terms. That’s when my son’s eyes were opened and his innocence was stripped away. He wasn’t stepping into a new way of life—he was shoved. There was no choice, no “try this if you want.” And for this mom who likes to explore every natural or alternative path first—there was no homeopathic-ing out of this one. That was a hard pill (pun intended) to swallow.

You see, you have this organ in your body called the pancreas. Its main job? To make insulin. Why does that matter? Because when you eat, food turns into sugar in your blood. That sugar is fuel—like gas for a car. But sugar can’t get into your muscles or brain by itself. Insulin is the key that unlocks the door so the sugar can enter your cells and give you energy. Without insulin, the sugar just stays stuck in your blood while your cells starve for that fuel.

And here’s the thing—you can’t just skip sugar and be fine. All foods—even things that don’t taste sweet, like bread, fruit, or pasta—turn into sugar for energy. Even if you eat almost no carbs (think keto), your body is clever and will turn protein into sugar, because your brain and other organs always need it. No matter what, your body will still need insulin to move that sugar into the cells for fuel.

In my son’s case, something—research suggests even something as ordinary as a cold virus—triggered his body to attack the special cells in his pancreas that make insulin. They’re called beta cells. Here’s the cruel truth: you don’t grow new ones. You’re born with the only set you’ll ever have. As his immune system attacked more and more, fewer were left to do the work. The body compensates for a while, but once about 80% of those cells are gone, it can’t keep up anymore. That’s when everything falls apart…and falls apart fast.

When the body doesn’t have enough insulin, sugar piles up in the blood instead of fueling the cells. So the body scrambles for another source and starts breaking down fat at a rapid pace. That process creates acids called ketones. A few ketones aren’t a problem—but too many build up and poison the blood. This dangerous state is called DKA. It’s the body’s emergency mode: too much sugar trapped in the blood, too many ketones building up, and no insulin to fix it.

When someone is in DKA, they might feel extremely thirsty (in turn, causing frequent urination), bone-deep tired, nauseous, or have stomach pain. Their breathing can grow heavy and deep as the body struggles to cope. If untreated, it worsens: confusion, passing out, even coma. Without help, the body cannot survive in that state and ultimately they will pass away.

And this—this is how we found out our son has Type 1 Diabetes.

I went to such lengths to explain what T1D looks like for two reasons: first, so you can learn from our experience. And second, to close the gap of misunderstanding that so often surrounds it. Because here’s the hard truth: when people hear “diabetes,” most picture Type 2. They assume it’s about cutting sugar or watching diet. But that’s not our story. That’s not my son’s story. Type 1 is an entirely different disease. Nothing he did caused it. Nothing we could have done would have stopped it. It’s a bad draw of the cards, plain and simple. To assume otherwise diminishes the weight of what he—and we—are navigating...Every. Single. Day. It makes an already invisible fight even lonelier.

And the education didn’t stop with the diagnosis. The specialist began explaining what it would take for him to live with this incurable disease. Every meal, every snack, every sports practice, every bedtime routine would now require math and monitoring. Carbs counted. Insulin measured and injected. Blood sugar checked continuously. Sleep interrupted by alarms in the middle of the night. Nothing—from a slice of pizza to a game of basketball—would ever be simple again. That was the moment we realized life as we knew it had shifted. His new reality would demand constant attention, vigilance, and courage…forever.

We spent the next two days in the hospital completely immersed in learning how to keep him alive outside those walls. Checking blood sugar constantly. Giving insulin shots—at minimum four times a day. Calculating carbs for every single bite so we could dose correctly. Learning how to spot the warning signs of low blood sugar, and even how to give emergency medicine if he were ever unconscious or having a seizure. Our heads were spinning, but we didn’t have the option of looking away. This was our new reality. We were, quite literally, learning how to be his external pancreas.

Living Under a Net of Safety

In the middle of all that overwhelm, the specialist said something that stopped me in my tracks: “Keep going on your trip. You don’t have to go home. Keep going. Diabetes is the same whether you’re home, on the road, or in Mexico.”

At first it sounded absurd. We were drowning in information, terrified to leave the hospital without a safety net—and she wanted us to drive across the border? But she knew something I didn’t yet. She knew we could do this. More than that, she knew we needed to. Not just for us, but for him. Because this is his life now, and it will be for the rest of his life. He would have to figure it out no matter where he was.

And she also knew the weight he’d carry if we canceled our family trip and turned around. The silent blame of it being “his fault.” The quiet grief of being the reason everyone’s plans ended. She knew his path forward was already heavy with loss, so her best gift of wisdom was urging us to hold onto normalcy wherever we could. And in that moment, normalcy meant driving across the border—straight into the unknown.

I’m blinking back tears even now as I write this. The second night in the hospital, after hours of crash-course education, I opened my Bible to my planned reading for the day and came across this verse:

My journal note that night read: “This feels so relevant right now as I’m on night two in Children’s Hospital in Dallas with my son. Thank you, God, for your sovereignty and power.”

The next day they discharged us into the wild. It felt just like leaving the hospital with your very first baby—when you think, What? You’re letting me walk out with this tiny human? I’m not qualified. I have no idea what I’m doing. You expect me to keep them alive? That’s exactly how it felt. Terrifying. I had NO baseline yet for what “normal” looked like with this disease. I kind of knew what to watch for, but not really. I didn’t know at what point it was reasonable to freak out.

Once discharged from the hospital, we had an important stop to make: the Walmart pharmacy. An unknown world for us—needles, test strips, medications—our heads were spinning. And yet, there are people whose kindness in those early days is stitched forever into my memory. One of them was the pharmacy manager: Kevin. I don’t even have the right word for what he was to us—an anchor, maybe?—but his care and compassion steadied us in a way I can’t quite explain.

When we walked into that Walmart pharmacy, he didn’t just slow time—he stopped it. In the whirlwind, he was wholly present—our unexpected anchor when everything else was spinning. Our insurance was a mess (made worse by being out of state), and he patiently helped us navigate what supplies we’d need and the most affordable way to get them.

We went back a second time before leaving for Mexico—because I was paranoid of running out of supplies—and this time I brought the whole family. I asked him, “This is odd, but…can we take a picture with you? You’ve meant so much to us, and I want to remember you.” He gladly obliged. My teen boys now refer to him as KevHim (teen vernacular for: he’s that guy, the GOAT). To this day, I half wonder if he was real. But he was (I’ve got the picture to prove it). And he was there when we needed him most.

Stepping Into the Unknown

That first night out of the hospital—still far from home, sleeping at a family friend’s house—I lay in bed convinced my son would die in his sleep. If we misdosed his insulin, his blood sugar could plummet. I didn’t know if he would just slip away quietly in his sleep, or if he’d wake up feeling awful—giving us at least a chance to correct it. As I lay there, mouth dry and heart pounding, I opened my Bible again.

I just stared at it. My mouth literally hung open. Because there I was: I had done everything I could to “prepare the horse for battle”—to set my children up for health and safety. But the verse cut straight through my fear: safety is of the Lord. Not of me. Not of insulin ratios or carb counts. Not of my frantic worrying. It’s His.

As I laid there, trying to drift off to sleep—petrified my son might pass away that night—I just kept whispering, “safety…safety…safety.” It was in that moment I let go of my so-called “control” (ha! as if we’re ever really in control of anything) and realized God would provide the safety He saw fit for us.

Two days after discharge, we crossed the border into Mexico. That word—safety—washed over me again and again. At the hotel by the border in sketchy circumstances: safety. Driving the iffy highway into Mexico: safety. Parking our van outside my mother-in-law’s home in a not-so-secure neighborhood: safety. Watching my son jump into the pool with cousins, his first real physical activity since diagnosis—something that can send blood sugar swinging wildly: safety.

Over and over, that word would whisper in my ear: safety. And despite very difficult circumstances, God gave me peace and rest on this trip that I had so desperately needed (see JM#2)—all under a literal net of: safety.

Coming Home to the Hard

While we were in Mexico, it honestly felt like we were living in an alternate reality. Receiving this diagnosis on a trip was pretty…trippy. It almost made it feel unreal—like something we were just living through on vacation. As if, once we returned home, life would snap back to what it was before. But of course, that’s not how it works. Coming home made it all sink in. The waves of grief really began to hit, because this wasn’t some faraway experience—it was our real life now.

By the time we returned home—almost four weeks after his diagnosis—the weight of it all was undeniable. It’s only been about eleven weeks since then, the equivalent of having a three-month-old baby. And just like those first fragile months, while it’s not as terrifying now, it’s still a lot. A lot to take in. A lot to unpack. A lot to process.

There’s grief in a diagnosis like this. Because a lot has been lost. And there’s a constant friction of well-meaning people saying things that only deepen the isolation that comes with it.

The hardest part of this diagnosis is that it touches everything. It’s not just giving shots or checking numbers—it’s the weight of knowing that every bite of food, every sports practice, every hang out with friends' outside of the house now comes with math and what-ifs. It’s the loss of simple. Pizza night isn’t simple. A night somewhere else isn’t simple. Even dropping him off at a sports practice isn’t simple. Nothing is untouched.

Beyond all of that is the ache for what used to be. A carefree life. The “before” we didn’t even realize we were living in. One day you’re just mom, the next you’re nurse, dietitian, and night watchman. And no matter how much love and grit you pour into it, there’s no clocking out—not at night, not on vacation, not ever.

And layered on top of all that is the loneliness of being misunderstood. People hear “diabetes” and think of sugar or diet changes, not the life-and-death calculations that happen day in and day out for a Type 1 Diabetic. Their casual assumptions and suggestions make this already heavy road feel even lonelier. Because the truth is, we are raising our son while also keeping him alive. Every single day. Every single night. Without pause.

I’m not really sure how to wrap this up. Because as untied as these words feel…that’s exactly how my life feels right now. Like an unraveled thread. Like a wound still open. I know healing will come, but for now it’s still tender, still bleeding, still sore. And maybe that’s the truest way to end—by not ending it at all, but admitting I’m still in the middle of it, trusting that piece by piece, the jagged edges of this story will smooth into something whole again.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. That means more than you know. Would you do me one small favor? Just click this link: Yes, I read this entry. It’s a quiet way of saying “I’m here,” but most importantly, it tells your email provider to keep delivering these to your inbox.

Did you find value in this entry? Please consider forwarding it to a friend. You don't know what life it may save for someone to have this knowledge of T1D...or perhaps it'll encourage someone else processing through deep grief.

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-Just Me[gan]