An Open Letter to My Mom on Mother's Day About Our Type 1 Diabetes Journey

Chronically Climbing

Dear Mom,

There are so many things I want to say—the first one being thank you.

Thank you for being among the first to notice something was off with me. Thank you for showing me I mattered, even though you were scared of the unknown, too. Thank you for taking me to the doctor when you had an inkling it could be something more than a flu bug.

Frequent urination, excessive thirst, unusual irritability, mood swings, and weight loss. The signs were textbook.

Now we know—it’s easier to look back and recognize the symptoms than it was to look forward to a diagnosis. Neither of us could believe it. Neither of us knew what was next, or how the years ahead would become the hardest reframe of our lives—turning a challenging chronic illness into something that drives me instead of brings me down.

We did it as a family—in our own way.

I’ll never forget writing about it the following year when we were prompted as fifth graders to document a story. I wrote about my type 1 diabetes diagnosis, calling it my own personal Fear Factor episode—that was when Joe Rogan was still the host. It’s been over 21 years since then. Can you believe it, Mom?

I thought I was so clever at the time—and I must still believe that on some level if I’m bringing it up again. I still laugh, thinking about how brilliant I felt in second grade, writing a story called The Adventures of Mama Johns (instead of Papa Johns). Do you still have those books? God, how I'd love to page through them again.

Please tell me my creativity has evolved since then (not just because you’re my mom). (I'll forgive you if you don't have the receipts.)

You were the first one who mattered when it came to recognizing my type 1 diabetes. (You, Dad and Sarah.) You slept next to me while I lay scared in a hospital bed for a week. I’ve never forgotten that. I can still visualize it. You were on a cot—imaginably uncomfortable—sitting through every doctor’s appointment and lesson in type 1 diabetes management.

So many people were in and out of that room that week…

You were there when Grandpa volunteered to be injected with a syringe to show me how easy it was. I miss him. Remember when he visited me in the hospital, and they showed us how to inject insulin using an orange instead? The hospital staff showered us with gifts—children’s books, Build-a-Bears with type 1 diabetes, and pamphlets that needed a bin in the kitchen pantry just to stay organized.

I still have Ruby and Rufus the Bears in my storage bins. I think I still have that Pink Panther book on type 1 diabetes, too. Remember that?

I’ve written this story so many times, in so many different ways, because I refuse to believe it doesn’t matter. I believe we assign meaning to everything in our lives—and I hold so much meaning in my diabetes. You know that. You always knew I felt called to help people in some way.

I hope you’re proud of me now. I was a girl who resented and ignored her condition at times, but today—I’ve leaned in in every possible way. I wish I had had the confidence to own my stories and passion for entrepreneurship when I started my first blog, MissTrendShe, back in college. I can't help but think my life would've been different if I had leaned in, but I was too young and insecure to make something of it. I didn't have the tools. I forgive myself for that now. I learned a lot since then.

Today, it feels good to be connected—like my stories might make a difference somehow, someday. I’ll never stop trying, Mom. Even if it helps just one or a few people, it matters to me. For that one girl who felt isolated and misunderstood like I did—I never want her to walk through life unsupported.

Today, I know that understanding and support don’t always go hand-in-hand. You can support without fully understanding. You taught me that. All kinds of support are welcome.

You might not always understand when I tell you what I do as a marketer, writer, or creative—and you don’t have to. Just know, Mom, I really hope I’m connecting with people in the ways they need most. I want to support them the way you made me feel supported—driving me to doctor’s appointments several times per year, getting my refills at the pharmacy in an untimely manner (sorry I didn’t understand refill timelines back then), and sleeping in that cot next to me when our lives changed.

I might not have recognized it then, and I’m sorry I don’t say it enough—but I know your life changed that day, too. All of our lives did.

So, while it may feel like an isolating experience to me at times, I’ll try to remember that it’s never far from your mind, either. I know how much you care. And I appreciate it. I appreciate you. Today, I know you weren’t mad at me when we left doctor’s appointments with dissatisfying news—you were upset for the same reason I was: because we had done everything in our power to manage this condition and still weren’t getting the results we needed.

I’ve always tried hard. I was in every extracurricular activity and never settled for less than first place—including with my diabetes. But life isn’t all about first-place trophies. Often, you fall somewhere in the middle.

I think I’m okay with that now.

…Okay, I’m not. But you still love me, right?

We’ve always been hard on ourselves, haven’t we? This Mother’s Day, I hope we both embrace more grace and patience with ourselves. We deserve it. We both know it. We’ve talked about it before. I hope you’re okay with me saying that.

I love you, Mom. I wouldn’t change a thing about this journey. If we had to go through it with anyone, I’m glad we were on each other’s side.

Thank you for everything. I can't wait to give you a big hug today.

Love,

Julia