I have been a dancer since before I was diabetic. The first question I asked upon diagnosis was if I was able to continue dancing or not. (My Type 1 diabetic grandmother reminded me of this days before she passed as a constant reminder of needing to live the hell out of my life!)

As a dancer and a diabetic, this balance has been rather difficult. As a child I sat in the front of the room chewing Starburst candies during ballet rehearsal and as a teenager sipped Gatorade at football games and band rehearsals. In college I gulped down cereal bars and now I quickly chew up fruit strips. Oh how we have evolved 😉

No matter the saving grace substance of the year, the problem will never change or cease to exist. Low blood sugars are a reminder, that in fact, no matter how hard I attempt to muscle up my emotions and put-togetheredness it doesn’t matter. Nature will still get the best of me and pretty much always win. And that’s okay.

Not in a glorious or “it’s beautiful because it’s part of nature way”, but in a “I will survive hey, hey!” way. Fuck diabetes. And having to shoot 16 ounces of orange juice at 6am. And wake up at 2am to make sure I don’t need to. And plan when exactly I’m going to eat lunch so I can shoot up 45 minutes before.

It’s okay in the kind of way that it has to be. And that’s not a pity party. No one should feel sorry for or give a furrowed brow look to their diabetty friend. Give them a wink,  a hug and a cup’o’juice at the moment and maybe a glass of wine at the end of the day. They got this.