Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d have to fight just to eat a protein bar on a plane. But that’s exactly what happened. Facing parents who cared more about their son’s peaceful flight than my health, I stood my ground. What happened next shocked everyone in our row.
My name is Elizabeth, and I’m someone who really loves her life. I’ve worked hard to build a career as a marketing consultant, a job I’m proud of—even if it means I’m living out of a suitcase half the time. Last year alone, I traveled to 14 different cities across the country, helping businesses refresh their brands and grow. The frequent flyer miles are nice, and I’ve gotten very familiar with hotel breakfast buffets—they might just be my second home at this point.
“Another trip? You’re like a modern nomad,” my mom always jokes when I call her from some airport terminal.
I smile and tell her, “It’s worth it.”
And it really is. I’m building something meaningful—a career that brings me financial security, respect, and the kind of life I always dreamed of having.
But there’s one thing that never quite fits perfectly in my life: my type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed when I was 12 years old, and it’s been a part of me ever since. For those who don’t know, type 1 diabetes means my pancreas doesn’t make insulin, a hormone that controls blood sugar. Without insulin shots and careful blood sugar checks, my levels can get dangerously high or drop too low—both of which can land me in the hospital.
My endocrinologist once told me, “It’s just part of who you are. Not a limitation, just a consideration.” I live by those words. I carry glucose tablets in every purse, set alarms to remind me to take insulin, and I never, ever travel without extra snacks.
My diabetes doesn’t define me, but it does mean I have to be extra careful, especially when flying.
Luckily, most people understand. My boss schedules meetings with breaks. Friends don’t mind when I stop to eat. Flight attendants usually get it when I ask for ginger ale right away and don’t want to wait.
But not everyone understands. And some just don’t care.
That’s what happened last month on a flight from Chicago to Seattle.
I’d been up since 4:30 a.m. for an important meeting, rushed through the crazy lines at O’Hare, and barely made my boarding group. When I finally sank into my aisle seat, I felt the first warning signs—a light dizziness that tells me my blood sugar is dropping fast.
Next to me sat a family of three. The mom looked to be in her thirties. Her husband sat across the aisle, with their son between them. The boy was about nine years old, glued to his brand-new iPad Pro, wearing fancy wireless headphones, and looking extremely bored and unhappy.
“Mom, I wanted the window seat!” the boy whined.
“Next time, sweetie,” she replied, stroking his hair like he was some tiny prince who had just been told no. “The nice lady at the counter couldn’t change our seats.”
The boy sighed loudly and started kicking the seat in front of him—hard, not once, but over and over.
The man in front of him turned around, glaring, but the mom just smiled apologetically without telling her son to stop.
“He’s just excited about the trip,” she explained.
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. I pulled out my magazine and tried to ignore the chaos. Live and let live, I thought.
The flight was only three hours. I could handle a spoiled kid for that long.
Or so I believed.
As the plane started taxiing and the safety instructions finished, I felt the dizziness grow worse. My hands trembled a bit—a clear signal that I needed to eat immediately.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the protein bar I always keep with me.
Just as I was unwrapping it, the woman next to me hissed, “Can you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I froze, bar halfway to my mouth. Had I really heard that?
She looked at me with pure entitlement, like I was breaking some unspoken rule.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“The smell. The crinkling. The chewing,” she whispered, waving her hand like I was causing an earthquake. “It sets him off. Our son has…sensitivities.”
I glanced at the boy, who was whining about his seatbelt and kicking his tray again. He looked perfectly fine—just loud, spoiled, and not a kid with any obvious disabilities.
Honestly? He didn’t even notice my protein bar.
“I understand, but I need to—” I started.
“We’d really appreciate it,” she interrupted sharply, “It’s just a short flight.”
My hands shook, but I didn’t want to make a scene. I figured I could wait for the snack cart.
I tucked the bar away and forced myself to stay calm, checking my CGM monitor discreetly. My blood sugar was dropping too fast for comfort.
Forty minutes later, the snack cart finally came down the aisle. I breathed a little easier as it got closer.
When the flight attendant reached our row, I smiled and asked, “Can I get a Coke and the protein snack box, please?”
Before she finished, the dad across the aisle cut in, “No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant blinked, confused. “Sir?”
“Our son,” he said, pointing at the boy now deeply focused on his iPad, “he gets upset when others eat around him.”
What? I thought, stunned. Is he serious?
I was about to say something when the mom added, “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
The flight attendant moved on, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to get caught in the middle.
When I reached up to press the call button, the dad leaned over again.
“Excuse me? Our son can’t handle other people eating near him. It sets him off. Maybe you could be a decent human for one flight and skip the snack?”
I looked from him, to the mom, to the boy who hadn’t even glanced up once from his game. My blood sugar alarm buzzed on my watch.
I needed sugar. Right now.
The flight attendant returned, and again the mom interrupted, “She’ll have nothing. Our son has sensory triggers. He throws fits when he sees food. You don’t want a screamer the whole flight, right? So don’t serve her.”
That was the last straw.
I turned to the flight attendant, loud enough for half the row to hear, “Hi. I have Type 1 Diabetes. If I don’t eat something now, I could pass out or end up in the hospital. So yes, I will be eating. Thank you.”
Heads turned.
People nearby looked at the parents like they’d just heard nonsense.
The flight attendant’s attitude changed instantly. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that right away.”
The mom rolled her eyes. “God, it’s always something with people. My son has needs too! He doesn’t like seeing food when he can’t have any. It’s called empathy.”
I smiled as I took the snack box and soda from the attendant. “You know what else it’s called? Managing your own kid. Not making the whole cabin suffer.”
I quickly ate the crackers and cheese, chugged the soda, and felt my blood sugar start to level out. The relief was immediate—both physically and emotionally.
Five minutes later, as I opened my laptop, the mom leaned toward me again.
“I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition,” she said with a tight smile.
I didn’t even blink.
“Lady,” I said clearly, “I don’t care. I’m managing my Type 1 Diabetes how I need to. You can manage your tantrum-prone prince however you want. I’m not risking my health because you can’t handle a meltdown. Book the whole row next time. Or better yet, fly private.”
The silence that followed was priceless.
The rest of the flight passed without a single problem. The boy never looked up from his game or noticed anyone eating. And the parents? They didn’t say another word to me.
That day taught me something important: standing up for your health isn’t rude—it’s necessary.
Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to stand firm when others try to ignore or minimize your needs.
My diabetes might not be visible, but it’s very real. And I have every right to take care of myself—whether I’m 30,000 feet in the air or standing firmly on the ground.
