I Never Thought I’d Have to Fight for a Protein Bar on a Plane — But I Did, and It Changed Everything
My name is Elizabeth. I love my life — well, almost everything about it. I’ve worked really hard to build a career I’m proud of as a marketing consultant. Sometimes it means living out of a suitcase, hopping from city to city. Last year alone, I flew to 14 different cities, helping businesses make their brands stronger. I joke with my mom, “I’m like a modern nomad.” She laughs and says, “Another trip? You’re everywhere!”
And honestly? It’s worth it. I’m building something real — financial security, respect at work, and the life I’ve dreamed about. But there’s one thing that’s always there, like a shadow — my Type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed when I was just 12 years old. For anyone who doesn’t know, Type 1 means my pancreas doesn’t make insulin — the hormone my body needs to control blood sugar. Without insulin shots and careful checking, my blood sugar can either shoot way too high or drop dangerously low. Both can land me in the hospital.
Years ago, my doctor said something I’ve never forgotten:
“It’s just part of who you are,” he said. “Not a limitation, just a consideration.”
I live by those words. I carry glucose tablets everywhere. I set alarms to remind myself to take insulin. And I always pack extra snacks when I travel, just in case.
Most people get it. My boss is cool about scheduling breaks. My friends don’t blink when I need to stop and eat. Flight attendants usually understand when I say, “I need that ginger ale now, not later.”
But sometimes, people don’t get it. Or worse, they don’t want to understand.
That happened on a flight last month, flying from Chicago to Seattle.
I had been up since 4:30 a.m. for an early meeting, rushed through the chaos of O’Hare Airport security, and barely made my boarding group. When I finally collapsed into my aisle seat, I was already feeling the warning signs — that lightheadedness that means my blood sugar is dropping fast.
Next to me sat a family of three. The mom, probably in her mid-thirties, was right beside me. Across the aisle sat the dad. And between them, their son — about nine years old, with a brand-new iPad Pro, wireless headphones that probably cost more than my monthly groceries, and a face full of boredom and irritation.
“Mom, I wanted the window,” the boy whined as they settled in.
“Next time, sweetie,” she said, stroking his hair like he was a little king being mildly annoyed. “The nice lady at the counter couldn’t change our seats.”
The boy sighed loudly and kicked the seat in front of him. Not once, but several times.
The man in front spun around with a glare. The mom just smiled politely and said,
“He’s just excited about the trip.”
But she didn’t stop him.
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. I pulled out my magazine and tried to focus.
Live and let live, I told myself. A three-hour flight — I could survive a spoiled kid.
Or so I thought.
As the plane started to taxi, that dizziness got worse. My hands trembled. I knew I had to eat.
I reached for the protein bar I always keep handy.
Suddenly, the mom beside me hissed,
“Can you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I froze, protein bar halfway to my mouth. Did she really just say that?
She stared at me like I’d pulled out something illegal, not a simple snack.
“The smell. The crinkling. The chewing,” she said, waving her hand like it was a big deal.
“It sets him off. Our son has… sensitivities.”
I glanced at the boy. He was whining about the seatbelt and kicking the tray table, but nothing about me or my bar. Honestly, he hadn’t even noticed.
I tried to explain,
“I understand, but I need to—”
“We’d really appreciate it,” she cut me off sharply.
“It’s just a short flight.”
I looked down at my shaking hands. The rational side of me wanted to shout, explain my diabetes. But the people-pleaser in me just folded. I tucked the bar away. I’ll wait for the snack cart, I thought.
But my blood sugar was dropping fast.
Forty minutes later, the snack cart finally arrived. I smiled at the flight attendant,
“Can I get a Coke and the protein snack box, please?”
Before I finished, the dad across the aisle leaned over and said,
“No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant blinked in confusion.
“Sir?”
“Our son,” the dad said, pointing at the boy, who was glued to his iPad.
“He gets upset when others eat around him.”
What? Was this for real?
Before I could say anything, the mom jumped in,
“It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
The flight attendant looked uncomfortable and moved on. I reached for the call button, but the dad leaned over again,
“Uhh, excuse me? Our son does not handle other people eating near him. It sets him off. Maybe you could be a decent human for one flight and just skip the snack, yeah?”
I looked at them, then the boy who didn’t even look up from his game. My blood sugar alarm buzzed.
I needed sugar. Now.
When the flight attendant returned, the mom cut in again,
“She’ll have nothing. Our son has sensory triggers,” she said.
“He sees food and throws fits. You wouldn’t believe the tantrums. So, unless you want a screamer the whole flight, maybe don’t serve her?”
That was the last straw.
I turned to the flight attendant and said 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. Thanks.”
Heads turned. Passengers nearby looked shocked.
One older woman across the aisle gasped and stared at the parents like they’d insulted her.
The flight attendant’s tone shifted immediately,
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that right away.”
The mom rolled her eyes and muttered,
“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 sweetly as I took the snack box and soda,
“You know what else it’s called? Managing your own kid, not the entire cabin.”
I devoured my crackers and cheese, chugged my soda, and felt my blood sugar start to climb back up. The relief washed over me — physically and emotionally.
Five minutes later, just as I opened my laptop, the mom leaned over again with a tight smile,
“I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition.”
I didn’t even flinch.
“Lady,” I said loud and clear,
“I don’t care. I’m going to manage my T1D however I see fit. You 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 golden.
The rest of the flight passed quietly. The boy never looked up from his game. The parents never said another word.
That day, I learned a powerful lesson: standing up for your health isn’t rude. It’s necessary.
Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to be firm when others try to make your needs seem less important.
My diabetes isn’t visible, but it’s very real. I have every right to take care of it — no matter who gets annoyed.
No one’s comfort is more important than someone’s health. And that’s a truth worth remembering — whether you’re 30,000 feet in the air or standing on solid ground.
