A story about self-advocacy, invisible disabilities, and the courage to prioritize health over convenience
The Life of a Modern Nomad
My name is Elizabeth Harper, and if you were to look at my life from the outside, you’d probably think I have it all figured out. At thirty-four, I’ve built a successful career as a senior marketing consultant, specializing in digital transformation strategies for mid-sized companies across the country. My work involves helping businesses modernize their marketing approaches, implement new technologies, and reach customers in increasingly competitive markets.
The job requires extensive travel—last year alone, I visited twenty-three cities across four time zones, spending anywhere from three days to two weeks in each location. I’ve become intimately familiar with airport layouts from coast to coast, can navigate TSA lines with the efficiency of a seasoned traveler, and have accumulated enough frequent flyer miles to upgrade to business class on most domestic flights.
“Another trip? You’re practically living out of a suitcase these days,” my mother teased during our weekly phone call as I waited at yet another departure gate, this time in Dallas.
“It’s worth it, Mom,” I always tell her, and I mean it. The travel can be exhausting, but I’m building something meaningful—financial independence, professional recognition, and the lifestyle I’ve always envisioned for myself.
My apartment in Denver serves as home base, though I’m there perhaps fifteen days a month on average. I’ve learned to pack efficiently, maintain client relationships across multiple time zones, and find decent coffee in cities I’ve never visited before. The work challenges me intellectually, pays well enough to afford the life I want, and provides the kind of variety that keeps me engaged and motivated.
Hotel breakfast buffets have become my unofficial second home, and I’ve developed strong opinions about which airline loyalty programs offer the best perks. I can conduct client presentations from airport lounges, respond to emails during layovers, and maintain productivity even when my office for the day is seat 12A on a Boeing 737.
But beneath this successful, nomadic lifestyle lies a constant that requires careful management and vigilant attention: Type 1 diabetes, a condition that has been my unwelcome companion for over twenty years.
Living with an Invisible Condition
I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when I was twelve years old, during what should have been a routine middle school physical. The doctor noticed concerning symptoms that my family had attributed to adolescent growing pains—excessive thirst, frequent urination, unexplained weight loss, and a fatigue that seemed disproportionate to my activity level.
Type 1 diabetes occurs when the pancreas stops producing insulin, the hormone responsible for regulating blood sugar levels. Unlike Type 2 diabetes, which can sometimes be managed through diet and exercise, Type 1 requires constant monitoring and insulin replacement therapy. Without careful management, blood sugar levels can swing dangerously high or low, both of which can result in hospitalization or worse.
“This isn’t a limitation,” my endocrinologist, Dr. Martinez, explained during one of my early appointments. “It’s a consideration. You can do anything you want to do, but you’ll need to plan for it differently than other people might.”
I’ve lived by those words for over two decades. My purse always contains glucose tablets, my phone has multiple alarms set for blood sugar checks and insulin injections, and I’ve learned to identify the early warning signs of both high and low blood sugar episodes with the precision of someone whose life depends on such awareness.
Travel, particularly the frequent business travel my career requires, adds layers of complexity to diabetes management. Different time zones affect insulin timing, airport food options are often limited and unpredictable, and the stress of travel itself can impact blood sugar levels. I’ve learned to pack extra supplies, research restaurants near my hotels, and always carry emergency snacks that can quickly raise my blood sugar if needed.
Most people in my professional and personal life understand and accommodate my medical needs without question. My boss ensures that long meetings include breaks for blood sugar checks. My friends don’t mind when I need to pause social activities to test my levels or grab a quick snack. Flight attendants, when I explain my situation, are typically helpful and understanding about providing beverages or snacks outside of normal service times.
The condition is largely invisible—I don’t use mobility aids, don’t require obvious accommodations, and can participate fully in all aspects of life with proper planning. But that invisibility can sometimes work against me when others don’t understand that what appears to be a casual snack request is actually a medical necessity.
The Flight to Seattle
The incident that would test my advocacy skills and challenge my patience occurred on what should have been a routine flight from Chicago to Seattle. I had spent three days in Chicago working with a manufacturing company that was implementing a new customer relationship management system, and the project had been more demanding than anticipated.
The client meetings had started early each morning and extended late into the evening, leaving little time for regular meals or my usual careful attention to blood sugar management. By Thursday evening, when I was finally heading home, I was running on adrenaline, airport coffee, and the kind of determination that gets you through challenging work weeks.
I had been awake since 4:30 AM for a final presentation, rushed through O’Hare’s notoriously crowded security checkpoint, and barely made it to my boarding group before they started seating. The stress of potentially missing my flight, combined with the irregular eating schedule of the past few days, had already started affecting my blood sugar levels.
As I settled into my aisle seat in row 14, I could feel the familiar warning signs—slight dizziness, mild hand tremors, and a general sense of unease that indicated my blood sugar was dropping into the range that required immediate attention. I had experienced these symptoms thousands of times over the years and knew exactly what they meant: I needed to eat something with carbohydrates within the next ten to fifteen minutes, or I would risk more serious complications.
The row arrangement was typical for domestic flights: three seats on each side of the aisle, with my seat positioned next to a family of three who appeared to be returning from a vacation or business trip. The mother, a woman in her early thirties with carefully styled hair and expensive-looking clothing, sat directly beside me in the middle seat. Her husband occupied the aisle seat across from us, and between them sat their son, a boy who appeared to be around nine years old.
The child immediately caught my attention, not because of any medical or behavioral issues, but because of the array of expensive electronics and accessories surrounding him. He had a newest-generation iPad Pro with a high-quality protective case, wireless noise-canceling headphones that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and a collection of gaming accessories that suggested his parents spared no expense in keeping him entertained.
“Mom, I wanted the window seat,” he complained loudly as the family settled into their seats, his voice carrying the entitled tone of a child accustomed to getting his way.
“I know, sweetheart, but the lady at the counter said these were the only seats available together,” his mother replied, stroking his hair with the kind of indulgent attention typically reserved for much younger children.
The boy sighed dramatically and began kicking the seat in front of him—not hard enough to cause damage, but persistently enough that the passenger in front turned around with an annoyed expression. The mother offered an apologetic smile but made no effort to correct her son’s behavior.
I settled into my seat and tried to focus on the more pressing issue of managing my dropping blood sugar. The flight from Chicago to Seattle was scheduled for three hours and twenty minutes, which should have been manageable under normal circumstances. But my current symptoms indicated that I couldn’t wait for the beverage service to address my immediate medical needs.
The First Confrontation
As the flight attendants began their safety demonstration and the plane started taxiing toward the runway, I felt my symptoms intensifying. The slight dizziness was becoming more pronounced, my hands were developing a noticeable tremor, and I could feel the kind of mental fog that accompanies dropping blood sugar levels.
I reached into my carry-on bag for the protein bar I always kept easily accessible—a specific brand that I had tested extensively and knew would provide the right combination of carbohydrates and protein to stabilize my blood sugar without causing a dramatic spike. This wasn’t a snack chosen for taste or convenience; it was medical supplies, as essential to my wellbeing as insulin or blood glucose testing strips.
Just as I began opening the wrapper, trying to be as quiet as possible out of consideration for other passengers, the woman beside me made a sharp hissing sound that caused me to look up in surprise.
“Excuse me, could you not?” she said, her voice carrying the kind of authority typically used by people accustomed to having their requests immediately accommodated.
I paused, the protein bar halfway unwrapped, certain that I had misunderstood her meaning. “I’m sorry?”
“The noise. The smell. The crinkling of the wrapper,” she explained, gesturing vaguely toward my hands. “Our son has sensitivities. It throws him off completely when people eat around him.”
I looked at the boy, who was completely absorbed in his iPad game, wearing his expensive headphones, and showing no signs of distress or even awareness of anything happening around him. He appeared to be a perfectly normal, healthy child who was simply spoiled and accustomed to having his preferences treated as requirements by the adults in his life.
“I understand your concern,” I began, trying to maintain a diplomatic tone while feeling increasingly urgent about my medical needs, “but I really need to—”
“We would really appreciate it if you could wait,” she interrupted, her smile tight and expectant. “It’s just a short flight. Surely you can manage without eating for a few hours.”
The request struck me as unreasonable, but I also recognized the complex social dynamics of air travel, where passengers are forced into close proximity and asked to accommodate each other’s needs and preferences. The people-pleasing part of my personality, trained through years of customer service work and professional client management, wanted to avoid conflict and find a compromise.
I glanced at my continuous glucose monitor, a small device that provides real-time blood sugar readings, and saw that my levels were continuing to drop at a concerning rate. But faced with the mother’s expectant stare and my own reluctance to create a scene, I reluctantly wrapped the protein bar back up and returned it to my bag.
“I’ll just wait for the beverage service,” I told myself, hoping that the flight attendants would begin serving drinks and snacks within the next twenty to thirty minutes. It wasn’t ideal, but I could probably manage the delay if necessary.
Over the next forty minutes, as the plane reached cruising altitude and settled into the steady hum of cross-country flight, I monitored my blood sugar levels with increasing concern. The numbers were dropping faster than I was comfortable with, and I was beginning to experience more serious symptoms—difficulty concentrating, mild nausea, and the kind of shakiness that made it difficult to perform simple tasks like fastening my seatbelt or operating my phone.
The Beverage Cart Incident
When the beverage cart finally appeared at the front of our section, I felt a wave of relief that was both physical and emotional. I had been managing my symptoms through sheer willpower and careful breathing exercises, but I knew I was approaching the point where delay could become dangerous.
As the flight attendants worked their way down the aisle, serving drinks and distributing snacks to passengers, I mentally prepared my order: a regular Coke for the quick sugar boost, along with the airline’s protein snack box that would provide more sustained energy. It was a combination I had used successfully on dozens of previous flights.
When the attendant reached our row, I smiled politely and said, “Could I please have a Coke and the protein snack box?”
Before I could finish my sentence, the father across the aisle leaned over and interrupted with an authority that suggested he was accustomed to speaking for other people. “Actually, no food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant, a young woman who probably dealt with unusual passenger requests regularly, looked confused but maintained her professional demeanor. “Sir?”
“Our son,” he explained, gesturing toward the boy who was still completely absorbed in his iPad game, “gets very upset when he sees other people eating around him. It triggers behavioral issues that we’d all prefer to avoid.”
I stared at him in disbelief. The child hadn’t looked up from his screen once during the flight, was wearing noise-canceling headphones, and showed no signs of distress or even awareness of the adults’ conversation. The idea that my eating a protein bar would somehow disturb him seemed not just unreasonable but completely fabricated.
“I’m sorry,” I said, addressing both the father and the flight attendant, “but I have a medical condition that requires me to eat regularly. I really do need something now.”
The mother immediately chimed in with a tone that suggested she was being extremely patient with someone who was being deliberately difficult. “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can exercise a little self-control and wait until after the flight.”
The flight attendant, clearly uncomfortable with the situation but apparently unwilling to make a decision that might result in passenger complaints, moved on to the next row without serving me anything. I watched the beverage cart continue down the aisle, serving everyone else while I sat with my blood sugar continuing to drop and my symptoms becoming more pronounced.
As soon as the attendant had moved past us, I reached up to press the call button for individual assistance. Before I could even make contact with the button, the father leaned across the aisle again with an expression of incredulous irritation.
“Seriously? Did we not just explain that our son doesn’t handle other people eating around him? It sets him off completely. Maybe you could try being a decent human being for one flight and just skip the snack.”
I looked from him to his wife to their son, who remained completely oblivious to the entire conversation, and felt my patience finally snap. My glucose monitor was now showing readings that were approaching the range that required immediate intervention, and I was experiencing symptoms that I knew could escalate quickly into a more serious medical emergency.
Taking a Stand
When the flight attendant returned in response to my call button, the mother immediately intercepted the conversation with the kind of practiced authority that suggested she was accustomed to managing situations through assertion and entitlement.
“She won’t be needing anything,” the mother informed the attendant with a tight smile. “Our son has sensory processing issues. When he sees people eating, he has complete meltdowns. You wouldn’t believe the screaming and carrying on. So unless you want a disrupted flight for everyone, perhaps you could just not serve her.”
At that moment, I realized that I had reached a crossroads that would define not just this flight, but my approach to self-advocacy in the future. I could continue trying to accommodate these unreasonable demands and risk my health, or I could stand up for my medical needs regardless of the social discomfort it might create.
I turned to the flight attendant and spoke loudly enough that several passengers in nearby rows could hear clearly: “Hi. I have Type 1 diabetes. If I don’t eat something right now, I could pass out or end up in the hospital. So yes, I absolutely will be eating. Thank you.”
The impact was immediate and dramatic. Heads turned throughout our section of the plane. An elderly woman across the aisle gasped audibly and stared at the parents with an expression of shock and disapproval. Several other passengers looked up from their books, phones, and laptops to observe what had clearly become a situation worthy of attention.
The flight attendant’s demeanor shifted instantly from uncertainty to professional concern. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that for you right away. Is there anything specific you need for your condition?”
“Just the Coke and snack box will be perfect,” I replied, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system.
The mother’s reaction was immediate and defensive. “Oh, so it’s always something, isn’t it? My son has needs too! He gets very upset when he can’t have the same food other people are eating. It’s called empathy.”
I looked pointedly at the boy, who was now eating colorful candy from a bag his parents had given him, completely absorbed in his game and showing no signs of distress about anyone else’s food consumption.
“Your son has an iPad, expensive headphones, and hasn’t looked up once during this entire conversation,” I observed calmly. “And he’s currently eating candy. So his inability to handle seeing other people eat seems to be pretty selective.”
“That’s completely different,” she protested weakly.
I accepted my Coke and snack box from the flight attendant with genuine gratitude and took the first sip of the sugary drink with the relief of someone whose medical needs were finally being addressed. As I opened the snack box and began eating the crackers and cheese, I could feel my blood sugar beginning to stabilize and my symptoms starting to improve.
“You know what you call it when you expect strangers to accommodate your child’s behavior at the expense of their own health?” I asked the parents with a sweet smile. “Poor parenting. If your son truly had medical or behavioral issues that required this level of accommodation, you should have booked additional seats or made arrangements with the airline in advance. You don’t get to police other passengers’ medical needs because it’s inconvenient for you.”
The Aftermath and Reflection
The silence that followed my statement was profound and somewhat satisfying. The parents, who had clearly expected their demands to be accommodated without question, seemed stunned that someone had not only refused their requests but had called out their behavior publicly.
The father opened his mouth as if to respond, then apparently thought better of it and returned his attention to his own phone. The mother made a few more attempts at justifying their position, but her arguments became increasingly weak and defensive as other passengers in nearby rows began offering supportive comments.
“Good for you,” the elderly woman across the aisle said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “People need to manage their own children instead of expecting everyone else to accommodate them.”
A businessman in the row behind us added, “I have a diabetic daughter. What you people were doing was not just rude, it was dangerous.”
For the remainder of the flight, the family remained quiet and avoided eye contact with me. The boy never once looked up from his iPad or showed any signs of distress about my eating or anyone else’s. When the regular snack service resumed later in the flight, he ate pretzels and cookies without any behavioral issues, confirming what I had suspected all along—his supposed sensitivity to other people eating was entirely fabricated by his parents.
As we began our descent into Seattle, I reflected on what the experience had taught me about self-advocacy, invisible disabilities, and the importance of standing up for medical needs even when it creates social discomfort.
The incident highlighted several important truths that I had been learning throughout my career in professional environments and personal relationships. First, that invisible disabilities require active self-advocacy because others cannot see or understand the urgency of medical needs that aren’t obvious. Second, that some people will attempt to use social pressure and manufactured emergencies to control others’ behavior for their own convenience. Third, that standing up for legitimate medical needs is not selfish or inconsiderate—it’s necessary for health and safety.
The Broader Implications
In the days following the flight, I found myself thinking about the broader implications of what had happened and how it related to the experiences of millions of people living with invisible disabilities. Type 1 diabetes affects approximately 1.6 million Americans, and while it can be managed effectively with proper care and attention, it requires constant vigilance and the ability to respond quickly to changing blood sugar levels.
The challenge of managing a chronic condition while traveling, working in professional environments, and maintaining social relationships is complicated by the fact that most people don’t understand what they can’t see. Unlike mobility aids or visible medical equipment, conditions like diabetes, epilepsy, chronic pain, and autoimmune disorders require accommodations that may not be immediately obvious to observers.
This lack of visibility can lead to situations where people make assumptions about what constitutes “reasonable” behavior or request accommodations that they don’t understand are medically necessary. In my case, what appeared to be a simple snack was actually emergency medical treatment, as essential to my wellbeing as any medication or medical device.
The parents on the flight had made several assumptions that reflected common misunderstandings about invisible disabilities. They assumed that my need to eat was preference rather than medical necessity. They assumed that their child’s comfort was more important than my health. They assumed that social pressure would be sufficient to make me comply with their unreasonable demands.
Most troubling, they seemed to believe that accommodating their manufactured emergency was more important than allowing me to manage my legitimate medical condition. This kind of thinking reflects a broader cultural tendency to prioritize convenience and comfort over accessibility and medical needs.
Lessons in Self-Advocacy
The experience taught me several valuable lessons about effective self-advocacy that have served me well in both professional and personal situations:
Clarity is Essential: When advocating for medical needs, clear, direct communication is more effective than hints or explanations. Saying “I have Type 1 diabetes and need to eat now” was much more powerful than trying to negotiate or explain the complexities of blood sugar management.
Medical Needs Trump Social Comfort: While it’s natural to want to avoid conflict and accommodate others when possible, medical necessities cannot be compromised for social convenience. My health was more important than the parents’ desire to avoid managing their child’s behavior.
Documentation Helps: Having visible evidence of my condition, such as my continuous glucose monitor and testing supplies, lent credibility to my medical claims and made it harder for others to dismiss my needs as preference or convenience.
Allies Matter: The support I received from other passengers reminded me that most people, when they understand the actual situation, are willing to support reasonable accommodations for medical needs.
Preparation Prevents Problems: Having emergency supplies, understanding my rights as a passenger with a medical condition, and knowing how to access help when needed made the situation more manageable.
Professional and Personal Growth
The incident also highlighted the importance of self-advocacy skills in professional environments. As someone who travels frequently for work and often finds herself in situations where she needs to manage her diabetes while maintaining professional relationships and client service standards, the ability to assert medical needs confidently and without apology has become essential.
I’ve since become more proactive about communicating my needs in advance when possible, whether that means requesting specific seating arrangements for flights, ensuring that meeting schedules allow for regular meals and blood sugar checks, or educating colleagues and clients about how they can support my health management without disrupting business activities.
The experience has also made me more aware of the challenges faced by others with invisible disabilities and the importance of creating inclusive environments that don’t require people to choose between their health and their comfort in social or professional situations.
Supporting Others with Invisible Conditions
Since the flight incident, I’ve become more intentional about supporting others who may be managing invisible disabilities or chronic conditions. This includes:
Avoiding Assumptions: Not making judgments about others’ behavior without understanding the full context, especially when it comes to food, medication, or accommodation needs.
Offering Support: When I see someone advocating for their medical needs, offering verbal or practical support when appropriate.
Educating Others: Sharing information about invisible disabilities and the importance of accommodation when opportunities arise naturally in conversation.
Creating Inclusive Spaces: In my professional role, ensuring that meetings, events, and travel arrangements consider the needs of people with various conditions and disabilities.
The Ongoing Journey
Living with Type 1 diabetes while maintaining a demanding travel schedule continues to present challenges, but the experience on the flight to Seattle gave me confidence in my ability to advocate for my needs effectively when necessary. I’ve since encountered other situations where people have made unreasonable requests or assumptions about my medical management, and I’ve been able to respond with clarity and confidence rather than accommodation and compromise.
The key insight from that experience was that I had both the right and the responsibility to prioritize my health over others’ convenience. This doesn’t mean being unnecessarily confrontational or inconsiderate, but it does mean being willing to stand firm when medical needs are at stake.
I’ve also learned to recognize the difference between reasonable requests for accommodation and manipulative attempts to control others’ behavior for convenience. The parents on the flight were not advocating for their child’s legitimate medical needs—they were using their child as an excuse to control my behavior for their own comfort and convenience.
Professional Impact
The confidence I gained from successfully advocating for myself in that challenging situation has also carried over into my professional life. I’ve become more assertive about scheduling meetings that accommodate my meal and testing schedule, more direct about communicating my needs to clients and colleagues, and more confident in setting boundaries that protect my health without compromising my work quality.
This improved self-advocacy has actually enhanced my professional relationships rather than creating complications. Clients and colleagues appreciate clear communication about needs and limitations, and my ability to manage my condition effectively while maintaining high performance standards has demonstrated reliability and professionalism.
Conclusion: Health as a Non-Negotiable Priority
The flight to Seattle taught me that advocating for medical needs isn’t selfish or inconsiderate—it’s essential. The kindest thing you can do for yourself and others is to manage your health responsibly and refuse to compromise medical necessities for social convenience.
My diabetes may be invisible to others, but it’s a constant reality that requires active management and occasional accommodation. I have every right to eat when my blood sugar is low, to test my glucose levels when necessary, and to prioritize my health over others’ preferences or comfort.
The parents who tried to prevent me from eating that day learned an important lesson about the difference between their child’s wants and another person’s medical needs. Their son’s supposed sensitivity to seeing other people eat was revealed to be a fiction designed to control others’ behavior, while my need for blood sugar management was a legitimate medical necessity.
Nobody’s comfort is more important than another person’s health. That’s a lesson worth remembering whether you’re at 30,000 feet or on solid ground. The courage to advocate for your medical needs, even when it creates temporary social discomfort, is an essential life skill that can literally be a matter of life and death for people living with chronic conditions.
Today, I continue to travel extensively for work, manage my diabetes effectively, and advocate for my needs when necessary. I carry emergency supplies, communicate clearly about my medical requirements, and refuse to compromise my health for others’ convenience. The protein bar I ate on that flight was more than just a snack—it was a declaration that my health matters and that I have both the right and the responsibility to protect it.
This story highlights the challenges faced by people with invisible disabilities and the importance of self-advocacy in medical situations. While Type 1 diabetes can be managed effectively with proper care, it requires understanding and accommodation from others in social and professional environments.
