And I would

That morning, getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. After stopping Mounjaro, I was still terrified of medication—afraid of the side effects, afraid I would always feel sick, afraid my life would consist of constantly being afraid and crying every time I needed to eat and take my medication.

Each morning was a struggle. I would lie in bed and dread having to get up, because getting up meant I had to eat and take my medications. The constant fear echoed in my mind: Did I eat enough? Did I eat too much? Will I get sick? Should I pack extra food just in case?

I used to not worry. I was carefree, and I ate and took my medicine without doubting the outcome. I would go about my day, trusting things would be fine. I trusted my body. I trusted my choices. I trusted the medication to work as intended.

Once I was officially diagnosed as a Type 2 diabetic, things changed. I was no longer pre-diabetic, and for me, this was a terrifying diagnosis. I kept telling myself other people had it worse, but the thing is—it was okay for it to be bad for me to. I wasn’t disqualified from struggling just because others seemed to carry themselves better. This was a learning curve for me, and adjustments had to be made—including changes to medication.

There was also noise from people who didn’t understand, saying things like I gave this to myself—that this was somehow my fault. I started to believe I had failed, that my body had failed me. But the truth about diabetes is that it can happen to anyone. Nobody asks for this. Nobody wants to live with diabetes—Type 1 or Type 2. You can do everything right and still face it. Some things are simply beyond our control.

Mentally and emotionally, I was drained and drowning. Constant doctor visits and endless tests left me feeling hopeless, like this was now my life—one I had no control over. Then the test for Type 1 diabetes sent me reeling. Everything I thought I knew came crashing down, and although it was confirmed that I was Type 2 diabetic, it didn’t bring the relief I thought it would.

I was still sick. Still fighting. For awhile, no matter what I did seemed pointless. The constant highs and lows left me exhausted and hanging on by a thread. I no longer enjoyed the things that once brought me joy. I wanted to give up—to throw in the towel and say, fuck this.

But by the grace of God, I continued to get up every morning. With anxiety, fear, and tears rolling down my face, I kept going. I kept fighting. I didn’t survive all the trauma in my life just to let diabetes hold me in a chokehold. I decided I was going to fight—even if I was crying, even if I was scared. I refused to let this disease tell me how to live.

Then one morning it happened.

I ate and took my medication without anxiety. Without question. I went about my day and created a routine. I even sat on the balcony and let the sun hit my face, and for once in a long time, I cried happy tears.

Sitting there in the sun, I realized something I hadn’t felt in a long time. The spring—warm wind brushed against my skin, and the world felt quiet as birds sang, almost like they were encouraging me, promising better days ahead.

I had hope, a feeling I hadn’t felt in such a long time.

In that quiet moment, I just knew things would get better. I would have good days and bad days, but the bad days didn’t have to stay bad. They would only last for a moment, and when they came, I would pick myself up and try again. I didn’t need to live in fear anymore.

I could live with this.

And I would.

It didn’t look like much from the outside—just breakfast, medication, and a quiet morning in the sun—but to me, it was proof that even the smallest victories can mean everything.