Entry #4 • September 2nd, 2025

The Weight of Wanting to Do It Well

I turned on my Work Jams playlist a few nights ago to crank through emails for my husband’s business (Spanish Now). The very first song to pop up was Running by Land of Color. That song shook me back in January—and hearing it again the other night, even though I’ve played it countless times since, it shook me all over again. Maybe because I’ve already been churning my gears about what I want to write in this Just Me entry.

I’ve loved writing these over the past few weeks. They don’t just take me an hour—each one has taken 8–12 hours, start to finish. And I don’t mind. Writing them has felt like oxygen. Which is probably why the song stopped me cold. Because performance—good performance—feels like oxygen to me, too. I just want to do an excellent job, whatever I’m doing.

Some people misinterpret that as judgment, but if you know me, you know I’m not focused on how other people measure up. I’m way too busy setting ridiculous expectations on myself.

And I can feel those expectations creeping into this series already. That’s why I’m calling myself out right here: pushing through the yuck, pushing through the scary. I want to protect this space as a place to dump and share honestly.

Thank you to those of you who’ve taken time to reply, text, send flowers, a coffee card, even a handwritten letter (!!). Your gestures have meant the world to me. I’ve always said I’m an open book...but only if someone asks, if they’re genuinely interested. I don’t want to “cast my pearls before swine” (Matthew 7:6). I want to share what’s precious with those who want to hear. And you, Dear Reader, have been such a balm to my soul.

I’ll admit, it’s a little weird knowing I’ll see you in public after you’ve read these words. But I signed up for this. I invited you in. This is what being vulnerable and real looks like. And some of you have even responded with your own vulnerability, which has felt like linking arms. Empowering, maybe? (That feels too buzzword-y, but I don’t know what else to call it.) Whatever it is...thank you.

Back to the song…

Shaking the performance mindset is hard. But maybe God can use that part of me—the striving for excellence, the deep drive—for His glory. Maybe He can take the very pieces of my personality that He shaped in me and make something good out of them.

Just be you, Megan. It’s okay.

I’ve gone through a painful loss this past year and a half...the loss of a best friend. Not through death, but through choices. We met when we were in high school; more than 20 years of friendship. I truly thought we’d be friends until the end. But sometimes things die that you never expected, and you just have to walk through it.

And that's what it's felt like...a death. I’ve bemoaned it more times than I care to admit, mostly to a trusted friend or my mom—bless them for never telling me to just “get over it.” The truth is, I lost my friend to alcoholism. I’ll keep the details vague, but it’s been awful. Watching someone you love make destructive choices again and again is wretched.

She’s missed my kids’ birthdays, big milestones at the store (HELLO, Unfolding Motherhood magazine being distributed by OBs and midwives!), and the lonely months of my son’s new diagnosis. She doesn’t even know. That hurts the most—she was always my hype friend, my biggest cheerleader.

January was especially rough. The loss felt like a scab I couldn’t stop picking—just when it seemed healed, I’d rip it open again. I convinced myself it must have been my fault. That I was the terrible friend. That’s when Running played one Sunday at Kiln, my favorite coffee shop.

(Side note: nearly every Sunday since 2018, I’ve carved out 1–2 sacred hours at Kiln—no agenda, just space. Sometimes it’s journaling, sometimes it’s planning, sometimes just scrolling. If you’re local and see me there, just wave...don’t interrupt, haha. Boundary set.)

That Sunday, when Running came on, I actually stopped and really listened. The lyrics hit me straight in the heart: This is me. So much of my insecurity and self-blame spilled onto the page of my journal that day. And yet, the song felt like a hug from God.

How is He so kind, so intricate in the ordinary moments of our days? It’ll never cease to amaze me. He’s in it all. He wants to be in it all. God created us for fellowship, and still we run.

Oof.

The Cost of Letting Go

Whew. Change of gears. I don’t sit down with a plan for these...I just write, and see where it goes.

Sending that last email felt like a release of pent-up angst. But then…meh. It’s over, but it’s not. Because this is forever.

It’s such a strange tension with a teenage son. Parenting teens already means slowly loosening your grip, giving them freedoms they both want and need. But now, on top of that, I’m learning how to let go while knowing there are life-and-death realities he has to navigate. I don’t want him to carry it all alone. But to some degree, he has to. And that’s hard.

Take the other night. He wanted to go cheer on his friends at their volleyball tournament, which meant being gone about five hours — over dinner. I asked what his plan was for food. He shrugged, “I’ll just eat when I get home.”

But it’s not that simple. He has to go loaded up with sugar snacks to keep his blood sugar safe. I told him, maybe a little too firmly, “You can’t just eat gummies the whole time. You need real food.”

He answered, “I have trail mix packs.”

“Yes, but you’re going to need something substantial. Why don’t you pack a sandwich?”

His hesitancy gutted me: “I can…but then I’ll have to do an insulin injection there.”

sigh. Duh. Of course...how could I possibly forget 🤦🏻‍♀️. He doesn’t want to be in the middle of hanging out with friends and then have to pull out his gear to give himself a shot just so he can eat a sandwich. Guys, this sucks. 😔

I backtracked: “Yeah, good point. Just make sure you’ve got enough snacks. Maybe grab a banana or some cheese sticks, too.”

I sighed again just now, writing this. Because it is exhausting. There are so many layers to how this diagnosis alters his normal, everyday life. And I have to balance my own emotions with his.

The truth is — he’s doing a phenomenal job. He knows what to watch for, what to do. But I’m still his mom. My brain spins twenty extra worries he’ll never think of. Chief among them: who helps him if his blood sugar drops too low?

One reader wrote me after my last entry to share her own T1D story. She was only nine years old when her mom was diagnosed. She said, “I grew up learning how to spot signs of low blood sugar and exactly what to do in emergencies. Very scary for a 10-year-old little girl to have to ‘be in charge’ of your mom at times. This truly does become a family affair.”

That hit me. Because it is a family affair.

It’s so hard to let go when the fears are justified. Trust me, I know how to manufacture plenty of unreasonable ones. But this is different. These risks are real. And it’s still so new, I don’t know yet what’s reasonable to freak out about and what isn’t.

Some days I just wish I could hand him my pancreas and take his.

Little Shoulders, Heavy Loads

A few days after we got home from Mexico in early July, I gathered the whole family around the dinner table. It was time to bring all the siblings in on what life was going to look like moving forward—back to regular rhythms, but with a new spin.

It was a late dinner, and the information I needed to share was critical, especially for my older boys. The next morning a few of them were heading off to youth camp, including my son with the diagnosis. My husband and I had decided it was okay for him to go since my husband would be there as an adult leader, plus some of his brothers. There would be enough “knowing eyes” on him. But I needed them all to understand what they were watching for.

My son and I had gone through intensive education during his hospital stay, but the rest of the family hadn’t. They’d just absorbed bits by watching us in Mexico. So that night, I gave them a crash course on the scariest reality of Type 1: severely low blood sugar. When it drops too low, a T1D can lose the ability to advocate for themselves. In that moment, they depend entirely on whoever is near to recognize the signs and help.

For those of you who don’t know me well, I have eight kids. At the time of writing this, they’re 19 (b), 17 (b), 16 (b), 13 (b), 11 (g), 9 (b), 5 (b), and 3 (b).

The morning after that family meeting, the older boys left for camp, and I was home with the “littles.” Two nights later, I circled back with them. That first talk had been aimed at equipping the older kids; the younger ones hadn’t really had a chance to speak up.

So I asked, “Hey guys, did you have any questions or thoughts from the other night?”

My 9-year-old piped up: “…I’m scared. I’m scared for him. What if at camp when he plays all the sports it messes up his blood sugar?”

💔 My heart broke. He feels the burden too. And I can’t take it away. Each sibling has to process this in their own way.

I reassured him, “The good news is there are a lot of people around him who know what to watch for. He’ll be okay. And like Daddy and I told him, he’ll sit out of some physical activities this year while we figure it all out.”

The questions kept coming—little observations, what-ifs, worries. It was precious to see how deeply they care for their brother, but heavy as a mom to watch them carry something so unfair.

Then my 9-year-old asked, “Are there doctors on planes?”

Such an interesting question. We don’t fly as a family (might as well charter a jet at that point 🤣), but I do occasionally for work...always with a baby in tow because #breastfeedingmomlife.

I explained: “There aren’t necessarily doctors on planes. But if someone has a medical need, the flight attendants will ask over the intercom if there are any nurses or doctors on board. Usually someone will step up.” I told him it’s like if they were to ask if anyone speaks Spanish and Daddy could raise his hand to help.

And then it clicked...he was imagining scenarios where his brother could be stuck without help.

💔 Again.

I told him about someone I follow on Instagram who has T1D. She had just posted about an incident on a flight (ironically…hi, God) where her blood sugar dropped rapidly while going through security. “It was so embarrassing,” she wrote. “Whenever my sugars drop like that, I get really emotional and weepy.” She told the guard she needed sugar quickly and needed to lie down, right there in the security line. Another passenger overheard and said, “I have candy! Let me get it.” He gave her sugar and helped stabilize her.

Maybe he had a family member with T1D. Maybe he just knew the urgency. Either way, he was exactly who she needed.

I told my son, “One day, you could be that person for someone else.” I could see it encourage him and give him a different way to view our set of circumstances.

When It's Your Turn to Help

So with that, I want to share with you the concerning symptoms of low blood sugar. Because if you ever find yourself near someone with T1D, you’ll know how to advocate for them.

As a parent, this is the scariest part—knowing he could have a severe episode out in daily life, and those around him wouldn’t recognize it. It makes me want to throw up just thinking about it.

And yes, I know God has His hand on him. I trust that. But it’s still scary. And that’s okay.

Most people don’t think twice about blood sugar. Your body is designed to take care of it without you ever noticing. Your pancreas is constantly at work, like a little control center. When you eat, it releases insulin to bring your blood sugar down to a safe range. When you haven’t eaten, it signals your body to release stored sugar so it doesn’t get too low. It’s like having a thermostat that keeps the room from getting too hot or too cold.

But with Type 1 Diabetes, that thermostat is broken. The pancreas doesn’t make insulin anymore. So every single day, we are the pancreas—measuring, calculating, adjusting with food or insulin to try to keep things just right. But no matter how careful we are, it will never be perfect.

And that’s where it gets scary. If blood sugar drops too low, the brain doesn’t get enough fuel. At first, someone might feel shaky, sweaty, pale, or a little off. But if it keeps dropping, they can get confused, irritable, or start acting strangely—like they’re drunk, dazed, or stumbling. And if it goes even lower, they might not be able to speak, respond, or stay conscious. That’s the part that haunts me as a mom: knowing my son could be out in public, unable to explain what’s happening, and relying on whether or not someone around him recognizes the signs.

If you ever see someone acting this way, especially if you know they have diabetes, the best thing you can do is give them sugar—juice, soda, candy, glucose tabs, anything fast-acting. If they’re awake but confused, help them eat or drink it. If they pass out, call 911 right away.

For you and me, our pancreas does this job invisibly, 24/7. But for my son—and every Type 1 diabetic—the job never turns off. And sometimes, despite everything, lows (low blood sugar in diabetes speak) still happen. That’s why I want people to know the signs. Because someday, you could be the difference between danger and safety for someone like him.

My son carries a bag everywhere we go. Inside are fast-acting sugar options—GoGo Squeez, fruit snacks, apple juice, glucose tabs—plus all his medical supplies: insulin, emergency medication (for if his blood sugar ever dropped so low he became unconscious or began to seize), needles, blood testing meters, lancets, and test strips. He also wears a medical ID bracelet so if something ever happened in public and 911 was called, they’d immediately have his name, diagnosis, and our numbers.

This is our normal now. His lifeline packed into a backpack.

And once again, I don’t quite know how to close this. Just...thank you. Thank you for reading, for caring, for replying. Your words back to me make this feel just a little less lonely.

If you made it here, would you click this link? Every click tells the email overlords that this message matters, which means it’s more likely to keep landing in your inbox instead of the abyss. It’s such a small thing, but it helps. Truly.

So I’ll end with one more song that’s been carrying me lately, Magnolia by Jervis Campbell:

-Just Me[gan]

And because sometimes we all need little reminders of hope in the middle of hard things, I made something extra for you…

A Little Something Extra

I’ve been experimenting with a new idea: making phone wallpapers to go along with these Just Me issues. I made some for Issue #1 and now this one, Issue #4.

They’re completely free. Just a little pick-me-up, a bit of encouragement you can carry with you each day. If you love them, let me know! I’ll put together wallpapers for Issues #2 and #3 soon, too.

One catch: these first ones are only available until Monday, 9/8 at 11:59pm MT. So if you’d like them, grab them while they’re live.

​Download Issue #1 Wallpapers Here​

​Download Issue #4 Wallpapers Here​