“No One Knows Your Body But You”: A Lesson at 30,000 Feet
By the time I boarded my flight from Chicago to Seattle, I was running on fumes.
All I needed was a quiet seat, a snack, and the chance to stabilize my blood sugar. Life with Type 1 diabetes doesn’t offer flexibility—and my glucose was on a slow, concerning dip.
But what unfolded in Row 18 wasn’t just about food. It became a lesson in boundaries, grace under pressure, and the quiet power of standing your ground.
As soon as I settled in and reached for a protein bar, the woman beside me shot a glance and whispered, “Can you not eat that? Our son’s… sensitive.”
I paused. Her son, maybe nine or ten, was sullen and silent—not visibly distressed, just annoyed in the way kids sometimes are. I tucked the bar away without comment, thinking I could hold off until the snack cart arrived.
But things escalated quickly.
When the attendant reached our row and I asked for a soda and snack box, the man next to the woman cut in sharply: “No food or drinks for this row. Our son can’t tolerate people eating around him.”
The flight attendant looked puzzled. Before I could respond, the woman chimed in with finality: “She won’t need anything. We’re managing a situation.”
That’s when I felt my calm fracture. I pressed the call button and looked directly at the flight attendant.
“I have Type 1 diabetes,” I said clearly. “If I don’t eat soon, I risk fainting or worse. This isn’t a preference—it’s a medical necessity.”
The attendant gave a slow nod, then turned and walked briskly toward the galley.
The father leaned in. “He has sensory issues. You eating might trigger him. Can’t you just wait?”
I met his stare without flinching. “And what happens if I pass out mid-flight? Are you going to explain to the pilot that I didn’t eat to protect your son’s feelings?”
The tension in the row was sharp enough to cut.
But then—a quiet voice from behind me broke the silence.
“She’s right,” the man said. “Medical needs don’t take a back seat on public transportation.”
A woman across the aisle added, “If your child has that level of sensitivity, maybe flying isn’t the best option.”
That settled it. No more arguments.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant returned—not with one snack box, but two, plus a small pack of cookies. “Just in case,” she said gently.
By then, I was starting to shake. I opened the snacks with trembling hands, trying not to feel guilty for doing something essential to stay conscious.
Then, about an hour into the flight, I saw the boy reach into his mother’s bag, unwrap a protein bar, and eat it—calmly, without incident.
I didn’t say a word. But I made eye contact with the dad and raised a single eyebrow.
He looked away.
As we began our descent into Seattle, the mom turned toward me. She didn’t smile, but her voice was softer.
“We overreacted,” she admitted. “We’re still learning how to handle his triggers, but we didn’t do it right today. I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “I get it—parenting’s hard. But for me, skipping a snack isn’t just inconvenient—it’s dangerous. Next time, just ask. Don’t assume I can go without.”
She gave a small nod back. No more words, but enough said.
As we were deplaning, the older woman from across the aisle touched my shoulder.
“You stood up for yourself with such dignity,” she said. “That’s not easy, especially when people don’t understand. But it matters.”
I smiled, tired but deeply grateful. It mattered more than she knew.
Here’s what I learned at cruising altitude:
People may not always understand what you’re carrying—what your body needs, what your health demands. And it’s not your job to shrink or apologize for it.
Speak up, even if your voice shakes. Even if it feels uncomfortable.
Because sometimes, saying “I need this” isn’t just about survival—it’s about giving others permission to do the same.
And sometimes, even the people who misjudged you might listen. Eventually.
If you’ve ever had to advocate for your body, your needs, or your health—know this: your boundaries are valid. Your voice is powerful. And your wellbeing is never up for debate.