If Today I Seem Quiet: A Love Letter from Diabetes Burnout

If today I seem quiet, it's because I am.

I told them today: I don’t have room anymore.

Not in my head.

Not in my heart.

Not for another thought, another feeling—except what diabetes demands of me.

So I can just live.

So I can just exist.

I want to set a boundary.

But I can’t.

This disease is a child who won’t move out.

A burr in my shoe I can’t shake.

A check engine light no one can fix.

Today, I’m surviving.

And while you may see someone who’s thriving—and I appreciate that—I’m just trying to get by.

So if I seem quiet, know the noise in my head is deafening.

Thoughts speeding so fast it’s hard to catch one,

to speak,

to explain,

to say how I really feel.

If I seem like I’m shutting down, I’m not.

I’m in deep focus mode.

My brain is: asking when I last dosed, telling me to drink more water, reminding me to check my CGM, calculating when my next endo visit is, debating dinner—will it wreck my sleep? Can I exercise with the insulin I have on board?

Then it loops back—three more times on Mondays when I’m finally resetting from the weekend.

My mind is racing. And while I know I have you, I also feel like I just have me.

This disease takes so much out of me.

Please know—I want to give to you.

But if today, all I can give is to myself,

understand it’s so I can give to you.

Because when I care for me, I show up better for you.

And that makes me happier, too.

Type 1 diabetes steals moments—but somehow, I gain more than I lose.

And I’m grateful you’re here with me.