Issue #7 • September 23rd, 2025

On the Struggle Bus

On the struggle bus. Off the struggle bus. On the struggle bus. That’s the rhythm right now.

I actually already wrote this entry once, a few days ago when I felt off the struggle bus. It felt almost too good to be true. Now that I’m back on the struggle bus, it feels like a more authentic email can come from here. Not that the first draft was inauthentic, but tonight I want to process from where I’m really sitting. Later, I’ll probably pull some pieces from that earlier version. But for now, I’m resisting opening it, and just writing from the rawness of this moment. It’s already 11:30 p.m., and I’m only just starting.

Yesterday was draining, and last night was rough (the second hard night in just a few weeks). My son has a continuous glucose monitor (CGM), which is supposed to simplify the constant task of knowing his blood sugar levels. He has to know those numbers anytime he eats because insulin dosing depends both on his current blood glucose and the carbs in whatever he’s about to eat. Before the CGM, we were pricking his fingers numerous times throughout the day. Now he can just open the app and see his numbers, no lancet needed.

The catch: the CGM has to be replaced every 10 days. It gives you a countdown and then a ~12-hour grace window. Insurance covers only three monitors per month, which means you have to stretch each one to the full 10 days or else go without and return to finger pricks. Yesterday morning it was time for a replacement. For now, I help him with the process (eventually he’ll do it himself, but for now, I’m glad to be the one helping him navigate all these wild changes).

We removed the old monitor and prepped his other arm. At this point, it’s a fairly straightforward process—we’ve done it a few times. After…installing? (That sounds too bionic, though honestly, he is a little bionic now.) Anyway, once it was on, we paired it with the app via Bluetooth so the readings could come through.

But then I noticed: he was bleeding straight through the sensor. Hmmm. New. (This was only our fourth monitor at this point.) Without a baseline for what’s “normal,” my mind instantly jumped to:

1. Great, the sensor won’t work, it’s now compromised.
2. Or worse, can this become an infection risk?

Cue stress. Cue annoyance.

I messaged his care team through our communication app, and thankfully the nurse replied quickly: hitting one of the 60,000 capillaries is inevitable sometimes. Just watch the numbers and compare with finger pricks. No need to worry about infection. Okay. Cool.

Except…as the day went on, the sensor numbers were clearly off. This was further confirmed by finger pricks. Ugh. That meant we had to remove it—basically throwing it away—and start over.

Thankfully I’d just picked up his new prescription (three more sensors). But now I also had a new task: call the manufacturer, go through the replacement process, and hopefully get credit for the faulty one. Because the pharmacy can’t replace it, they can only supply us with our monthly allotment.

So, last night before bed, we did another sensor. Smooth process. No issues. Or so we thought.

Here’s the part we didn’t account for: sensors can take up to 12 hours to calibrate properly. Not long after putting it on, it started showing his blood sugar dropping fast. We didn’t have a reason to doubt the numbers because his dinner insulin shot was likely kicking in, so the rapid drop made sense.

The Long Night

Hold please while I elaborate—

This is all so complicated to explain without boring you to tears. But here’s the gist: when he eats, he has to count the carbs in his meal.

(If you remember from JM#3, I explained how insulin works: it “unlocks the door” to the cells so the fuel from food can actually be used. Without insulin, food can’t become fuel. None of us can survive without it. For those without diabetes, the pancreas is a perfect thermostat; it knows exactly how much insulin to produce. For a Type 1 diabetic, that thermostat is broken, and the whole process has to be managed manually.)

So: he counts carbs. Not because he’s dieting (though our brains are wired to think “low-carb diet” the second we hear that phrase). He counts them so he can figure out how much insulin he’ll need...because his body doesn’t make any.

Right now his ratio is one unit of insulin for every 12 grams of carbs. So, a 60-carb meal = 5 units. Simple enough on paper. But of course, it’s never that simple. Not all carbs are equal, and every body processes foods differently. Pinto beans, for example, digest much slower than rice. Last night we had pinto beans for dinner. Which means even with our best efforts—timing the insulin before vs. after the meal, tweaking the dose—it’s still imperfect. His plummeting numbers last night were probably a mix of his dinner insulin kicking in and the slow burn of those beans.

Here’s what happened: after dinner, when the CGM showed him dropping fast, he ate two pieces of toast (butter + honey) and drank a small glass of whole milk. That combo should’ve brought him back up. The CGM is designed to alarm when his numbers fall into danger zones, and when that happens, the answer is simple: sugar. Treat the low, rebound to safety.

Weirdly, that part annoys me—this idea of “eat sugar” as prescribed medical care. The real goal is to keep his numbers steady enough that we avoid those extreme drops or spikes in the first place. But Type 1 is a constant balancing act. You’re always trying to imitate what the pancreas does automatically for everyone else by supplementing sugar and insulin as needed.

Even with the toast and honey and milk, though, the numbers weren’t bouncing back. They hovered stubbornly between 60–70. His care team wants him between 70–150 at any given time, and specifically above 130 before bed or physical activities. Overnight, blood sugar usually drifts lower, so starting below 70 is a hard no...it'd simply be irresponsible and risky.

sigh We had a long way to go.

We kept giving him small “snacks” and waiting 15 minutes, then checking again. After 30 minutes, his numbers inched to maybe 70–80. But the big variable in all of this? We’d just put on the new monitor. Likely it was still in its calibration stage and not giving us the real picture. He didn’t feel like he was low, and he knows how that feels.

Finally, he shrugged and said, “I’m going to bed. If it keeps dropping and the alarms go off, I’ll get up, eat something, and do a finger prick to double check numbers.” Fair enough. I agreed. We both crashed around 1 a.m.

Then at 3:15 a.m., I jolted awake (probably due to Linus). I checked his monitor app on my phone—no readings for over an hour. My stomach dropped. I opened my texts, and sure enough: at 2:20 he had messaged me. His alarms had been going off nonstop, reading him at dangerously low numbers. So he got up (bless), did a finger prick: 87 was the reading. The CGM was pulling about 40. Huge difference. He drank half a Body Armour (bless again), then turned off the CGM app completely. His logic: the monitor was useless for now (while still calibrating), he was tired, and he’d done what he needed. Reasonable choice.

But reading all this at 3:15 a.m. gave me an instant headache. My logical brain said: He’s fine. The finger prick was safe, and with that drink, he’d only rise from 87, not fall further. My brain knew this. But my heart was heavy. Because it’s exhausting. And I hate that he had to wake up over and over for an hour and a half, fighting this by himself.

People keep asking me how he’s doing with it all. At this point, I usually say, “Well, he’s definitely doing better than I am.”

It’s no joke what this does to you as a parent. I’m in two Facebook support groups: one for parents of T1D kids, the other for anyone connected to T1D. The difference between the posts is striking. Parents process and grieve in a completely different way than the kids do. For the child, it’s usually about the task at hand, the here and now (depending on their age). For the parent, it’s the whole scope of life stretching out in front of them. It’s grief, loss, fear, overwhelm, frustration, misplaced regret, and a mountain of new tasks. There’s so much defeatedness.

I met another local mom through a mutual friend; her son is the same age as mine, but they’re now two years into this same diagnosis. She told me right away, “I cried every day for a year after his diagnosis.” My first thought was, Wow, that’s kind of extreme. Especially because I’m not a crier.

(As I told you in JM#5, Dear Reader, I like to push feelings aside so they don’t interfere with my doing, performing, achieving.)

But sometimes you can’t push them aside. You have to feel them. And for me, while I may not cry every day, my version of what she described is this: I feel the weight of all these feelings every. single. day. It is SO draining. It. Is. So. Much.

I feel like an absolute whiner droning on about it to you, but wow. I get the sentiment of "crying every day for a year". This is unbelievably suffocating. Nothing is untouched by this diagnosis.

And while people mean well with their encouragement, sometimes it just isn’t helpful. Sometimes I just need someone to listen and let it be hard. Yes, I’m thankful insulin was invented (otherwise he wouldn’t be alive). Yes, I’m grateful for the technology that makes this the easiest diabetes has ever been to manage. Yes, I know research is moving toward potential cures.

But right now? This just sucks. I hate it. I feel like I’m breaking into a million pieces.

Breaking Apart, Falling Into Grace

Right when the weight feels unbearable, this song, Fall by Allie Page, reminds me of the only arms I can really fall into.

Answering people when they ask how I’m doing is awkward. I’m really leaning into not giving the false “I’m good!” These days, I venture out with an “Eh, I’m okay.” Which often prompts follow-up questions: “Oh, just okay? What’s going on?” (That’s how I know they’re not on this email list, ha.) Then I’ll shrug: “Mmm, just a lot of stuff. It’s heavy, it sucks, but it’ll be okay.” Sometimes that ends the conversation. Sometimes it opens the door further, depending on how much I want to share. I cherry-pick who gets what version of the truth. Which—surprise!—is also exhausting.

As for last night’s saga: by morning, the sensor had finally calibrated and was working fine. I told him, “Lesson learned: don’t change a monitor right before bed. Do it 3–6 hours earlier.” Obviously yesterday was unusual—we’d already changed it once and it failed, so we didn’t have a choice. But at least now we know. I try to turn these into learning moments, for both of us. Sooner than later, he’ll be handling all this completely on his own. I want him practicing as much as possible while he’s still at home, in the safety of family.

Why I Write

Now that I’ve dragged you through the last tough 24 hours, it feels like the right time to go back and read my original first draft…

Ok, yep...I’m keeping most of it. Here it is (edited):

Dear Reader,

I had no idea where this Just Me series would lead seven weeks ago. What started as something I needed to survive the chokehold of grief has turned into…something else. Bigger than me, maybe. All I knew was that I wanted to pour my heart out in words, and I wanted a little accountability. When I dump thoughts into my private journal, I don’t worry about clarity or craft. I just spill. But this format — inviting you in — forced me to be deliberate about word choice and how I wanted to paint a picture for you.

So while this is still stream-of-consciousness, just like my private journal, here I have to be deliberate. With word choice. With tone. With how I paint a picture for you. That’s really what this is — me trying to tell you a story with words. Not polished, not perfect, but shaped enough that you can step inside with me. The difference is subtle but important: in my journal I write for myself, but here I write to bring you along. And somehow, that shift makes me sit longer with the feelings, wrestle harder for the right metaphors, and slow down enough to describe what’s actually happening in my heart — not just what’s happening in my day.

That intention has pushed me to dig deeper into what I’m feeling, which has actually helped me process. For example, in JM#6 when I wrote about matcha, ashes, and feeling like a mere mortal, I couldn’t gloss over those images. I had to sit with them and find the right language to express how I actually felt. That practice has been useful, painful, and honest.

Being achievement-driven, I’m very good at pushing feelings aside. “I don’t have time for those,” I subconsciously tell myself. If feelings threaten to slow me down, I shove them away. One friend banters with me when I tell her about something that made me sad or uncomfortable; she’s quick to remind me it’s okay — normal, even — to feel those things. This series has blown the lid off my avoidance. I’m feeling all the feelings and sharing them with you. That’s why you’ll see me flip out in some entries and call it gross or scary — because it’s not my normal to lean in. But I am.

I had no idea I’d be here seven weeks ago, spilling my private journal into a semi-public space. “Being vulnerable” is such a buzzword right now; it makes me want to eye-roll. But I guess that’s what these entries have been. Vulnerable. And it’s surprised me how many of you have replied in kind with your own vulnerability. It’s created this quiet camaraderie I didn’t expect. I haven’t sent one of these and not received at least one reply. Those replies have been incredible.

You tell me I’ve helped you feel less alone, but you know what you’ve done for me? You’ve made me feel normal. You haven’t minimized anything. You’ve met me where I am. What a gift. What a kind, kind gift.

A few of you have checked in in person or through the Insiders text group. When you ask “How are you?” I can honestly say, “Meh…I’m okay.” It would feel strange to say “I’m good” when I’ve been pouring my heart out here every week. And yet, I can still be “good” in many practical ways: my needs are met, my family is well, the business is running, and I haven’t had to dive back into the sales floor. There is a lot that is good. But it’s also okay to be just okay. Thank you for letting me be “just” okay. Thank you for the emails, texts, hugs, handwritten letters (two now — what a treat), flowers, tea, lunches, and the everyday help. I don’t mean to brag; I want you to know how much it’s meant to me.

If you’re walking through something hard too...please speak up. And if you know someone who’s struggling, reach out. It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. The eight things I listed above made a real difference for me (and I’m probably forgetting some). Small kindnesses matter.

So that was a whole lot of words to basically say…this series has resonated with many of you.

Back in May, before our Mexico trip, before my world turned upside down—I was planning to finally launch an idea I’d carried for a long time. I’d been dabbling with store newsletters for about six months and loved writing them. The response was great; readers seemed to enjoy the antics, and I felt like I’d found a medium I could actually use to tell stories.

My grand plan was to spend vacation time in Mexico dreaming and drafting a storytelling series. I knew exactly where I’d start: the story of my husband and me. People often ask how we met, and we rarely share it—not because we don’t want to, but because it’s so precious we want to tell it well. It’s not a story for small talk or dinner chatter. It needs space.

So I thought, That’s the one. Perfect timing too: in May we celebrated our 20th anniversary, and in June we were headed back to Cancun (alone, without any kids!)—where we honeymooned. I’d take new photos, pair them with throwbacks, and launch the series from there. A chapter each week. Old-school style, like TV before Netflix and DVRs. Remember racing home to catch your favorite show live? And if you couldn’t, you rigged the VCR to record (and pray it didn’t cut off half the episode)? If you don’t remember, bless—you’re younger than me and making me feel old. Anyway, that was my vision: weekly chapters, same time, same place, right in your inbox.

But June had other plans. Cancun? Cancelled. God handed me a completely different storyline—one I didn’t know I’d have to share. Uncomfortable. Yucky. Scary. But here we are. And now, seven weeks in (Chapter 7?), I actually look forward to sitting down to write. Most weeks I have no idea where it’s going to go. Sometimes I carry a loose thread of thought, but once my fingers hit the keys, the words just tumble out. I try to make them visible for you, to paint pictures with words. I like that.

And in the process, something has shifted. Writing has helped me process. A few weeks ago I felt like I was in a chokehold (JM#5 was the result). I even texted a friend:

Now, just weeks later, the weight feels lighter. Was it time that loosened the grip? Or was it the intentional, truthful writing? I’m leaning toward the latter.

This entry feels haphazard. Chaotic, like my life right now. I’m sure once I edit, it’ll pull together better. But starting over would feel performative—and that’s what I’m resisting here. I want to preserve the rawness and realness this space has given me. A place to drop the performance (as I said in JM#5) and just spill the inner workings of my brain. No idea why I want to share them, but I do.

One tiny ask: would you click ​this link​ to let me know you’re reading? It doesn’t tell me your name, but it does tell me these words are making it through. And that means more than you know.

Dear Reader...thank you. Thank you for showing up each week and reading. I want to pick your brain soon on the future of this series, but this isn’t the week. Maybe next time.

And now for something lighter: Monday I leave for a business conference I’ve had planned since spring, and I am SO excited. It’s with some of my closest business friends, and I can’t wait to see them, hug them, and just hang out. For the last five years, every conference has included a nursing baby. This year—for the first time in six years—I get to go completely solo.

By the time this hits your inbox Tuesday, I’ll already be at the conference. That’s the fun thing about these “episodes” — I’m always writing a few days ahead, so you’re kind of catching me in a time capsule.

Of course there’s a twinge of guilt leaving the kids, but my older boys can handle the house while my husband works. They’ll be fine. And me? I cannot wait for a giant king-sized hotel bed all to myself. 😂
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Until then,

-Just Me[gan]

P.S. No wallpapers this week. This entry took me more time than usual since I wrote it twice. ​Click here​ if you’d appreciate a new set of wallpapers for this entry next time.