Lila’s Day with Type 1
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It’s 6:30 AM on a Monday morning.

I’m low—I can feel it. My insulin pump is vibrating beneath me. I lie still, hoping it’ll stop. My alarm is set for 7:00 AM and I want just 30 more minutes of sleep. I worked last night. I’m tired.

I ignore the vibration, silence the alarm, and fall back into a deep sleep.

Suddenly, I’m jolted awake by the urgent low alert—it’s loud and alarming. My cat, Jasmine, jumps off my bed in fright.

I feel starving, like I haven’t eaten in days. I’m grumpy, irritable, sweaty, and shaky. My vision is blurry.

I reach over and find a crusty, half-eaten pack of jellybeans—only the worst flavours are left. I throw them across the room in frustration.

I manage to stumble into the kitchen, desperate for cold juice. Of course, my little brothers have drunk the flavour I like, so I grab the one I hate—gross mango orange. I skull a glass and slump onto a kitchen stool. The world is spinning, and I feel like I’m not even in it.

Dad asks if I’m okay. I snap. I’m irrational now, and Mum’s voice feels like noise that only adds to my irritation. I tell her I’m fine and to leave me alone. My brothers are chatting happily beside me, but I’m disconnected—I can’t even acknowledge their presence.

I start to feel a little better and return to my bedroom. I sit down to put on my makeup, but I realise I still need more sleep. I check my phone. I’m running late. My nursing assessment is due today and now that’s all I can think about.

I throw a muesli bar into my mouth, grab a banana and last night’s leftovers, and run out the door.

I jump into the car, start the engine, and check my levels. Still only 4. I can’t drive. My anxiety starts to rise.

I sit and wait in the car. I’m going to be late. I read through some study notes, memorising assessment points. I don’t feel like explaining myself to my teachers. They probably won’t understand anyway. And ironically—I’m studying nursing, and yet I still often don’t feel understood.

My levels creep up to 5. I can drive now. I start the car.
I’m late. I’m stressed. I’m angry.
I try my hardest, with the best intentions, but it never feels like enough.

At the nursing lab, I sit down and my alarm goes off again. Now I’m double arrows going high. I’ve overcorrected the low. The stress, the anxiety—it’s all hitting me at once. My insulin corrections aren’t working fast enough.

It’s time for my class presentation. I’m supposed to demonstrate on a fake patient in front of the teacher, but suddenly, I can’t remember anything.
Brain fog.
It’s like everything I studied for weeks is gone.

I decide to speak up. I tell her I’m high, and I can’t recall what she asked me—even though I studied hard and I do know it.

Her response shocks me. She’s kind. Compassionate. Something I’m not used to. She tells me it’s okay, that her husband has type 1. I can resit the assessment.

It feels like a miracle. That never happens.

But on the drive home, I feel disappointed. I worked so hard for this.

I sit on my bed to rest. I’m emotionally and physically drained. I want a nap, but I have to work now, I need money for the life I want to live.

I get ready for another shift at Woolies, I’m the check out supervisor. It’s the after-school rush.
As I get there, I feel it—my levels are dropping again.
I overcorrected the high. The workout at the gym last night is catching up with me. It was legs day.

I don’t have time to think about Type 1 diabetes. My manager needs me. The school kids are hungry and parents are in a rush.
I grab a juice from the cold section and drink what I can.
I’m sipping and serving. Smiling through the fear of falling low yet again.

I feel shaky. I need to sit down.
I wave to my manager from my register on aisle 1, but they don’t see me.
I try again. Nothing.
So I grab some lollies from my pocket and I keep going.

I feel let down. I can’t think straight.

I finish my five-hour shift and finally go home.
I call my boyfriend on the drive. I tell him about my day. He listens. That’s all I need. All I hope for..

I’m not telling you this to complain.
This is my reality.
Living with type 1 means everything is harder.

It’s invisible.
People can’t see the struggle.
They assume I’m okay—because I usually don’t say otherwise.

I’d rather stay silent than draw attention to myself.

They say people with type 1 make 180 extra decisions a day.
But I believe it’s more—way more.
Especially the mental ones.

We worry constantly—not just about the numbers, but the long-term complications. We’re warned about them from a young age. Now I’m starting to see them for myself, and it’s overwhelming.

People think type 1 is just injections, jellybeans, and finger pricks.
I don’t even bother correcting them anymore.
They think my pump does all the work. It doesn’t.
They ask what the thing on my arm is.
I give them a blunt answer.
I get sick of explaining, so sometimes, I just hide it.

I see the worry in my parents’ eyes when I’m low.
I hear the stress in their voices when I’m high.

Mum gives me constant motivational advice.
I don’t always listen, but I know her words come from love.

She still buys all my supplies and fills my jellybean jar to help me, I like that. 

What she’s done with the Type 1 foundation is incredible.
I’ve seen it all firsthand. Sometimes, I can’t believe how far she’s taken it.

Her work has inspired me to start my career in nursing and to also work in the Foundation myself—
because I want to help others understand, the way I wasn’t always understood.

I want to help young girls who feel disconnected from their healthcare teams.
I want to do things differently. Like my mum does.

The Type 1 foundation was built from nothing—and she won’t stop, because she sees it all from the inside.

I know I need to take control of my type 1 before it controls me.

I’m only 21. I want to live my life.
But I know that also means living a healthy life.
And I have so much to live for.

Type 1 is a part of me—but I’m learning to accept it.
To love this part of me a little more each day.

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In August 2025 Lila is running a marathon for TYPE1.