Never in my life did I think I’d have to fight just to eat a protein bar on a plane. But that’s exactly what happened when I faced a family who cared more about their son not having a tantrum than about my health. What happened next left the whole row completely silent—and shocked.
My name is Elizabeth, and honestly, I love my life. I’m a marketing consultant, which means I travel a lot—sometimes it feels like I live out of a suitcase. Just last year, I visited 14 cities all over the country, helping businesses build their brands. The frequent flyer miles are a nice bonus, and I’ve definitely become an expert at hotel breakfast buffets.
“Another trip? You’re like a modern nomad,” my mom always jokes when I call her from some airport terminal.
“It’s worth it,” I tell her every time.
And it is. I’m building something meaningful—financial security, respect at work, and the life I’ve always dreamed of.
Everything runs smoothly, except for one thing that always complicates my life—my Type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed when I was 12. That means my pancreas doesn’t make insulin, a hormone that controls blood sugar. Without insulin shots and careful checking, my blood sugar can get dangerously high or crash really low.
Either one could send me to the hospital if I’m not careful.
“It’s just part of who you are,” my endocrinologist once told me. “Not a limit, just something to keep in mind.”
I live by those words. I carry glucose tablets in every purse, set alarms to remind me to take insulin, and always pack extra snacks when I travel.
My diabetes doesn’t define me—but it does mean I have to watch myself, especially on the road.
Most people get it. My boss plans meetings with breaks, my friends don’t mind if I have to stop for a snack, and flight attendants usually understand when I explain I need that ginger ale right away—not 20 minutes later.
But not everyone understands. And some don’t care.
That became crystal clear last month on my flight from Chicago to Seattle.
I’d been up since 4:30 a.m. for an early meeting, rushed through the crazy security lines at O’Hare, and barely made my boarding group.
When I finally sank into my aisle seat, I felt that familiar dizziness creeping in—my blood sugar was dropping.
Next to me sat a family of three. The mom, probably in her thirties, was right beside me, the dad across the aisle, and their son—about nine years old—was stuck in the middle. The boy had a brand-new iPad Pro, fancy wireless headphones that probably cost more than I spend on groceries, and a face that said, “I’m way too cool for this.”
“Mom, I wanted the window!” the boy whined as they got settled.
“Next time, sweetie. The nice lady at the counter couldn’t change our seats,” the mom said, stroking his hair like he was some kind of little prince.
The boy sighed like it was the end of the world and started kicking the seat in front of him—hard, more than once.
The man in front of him turned around, clearly annoyed, but the mom just smiled and said, “He’s just excited about the trip.” She didn’t stop him.
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. I pulled out my magazine and tried to tune it all out.
Three hours on a plane with a spoiled kid—I thought I could handle that.
But I was wrong.
As the plane finished safety demos and started taxiing, my dizziness got worse. My hands trembled. I knew I had to eat something.
I reached for the protein bar I always carry.
Just as I was unwrapping it, the woman next to me hissed, “Can you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I froze, protein bar halfway to my mouth, thinking I must have heard wrong.
But no—she gave me a look like I’d just pulled out something illegal.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“The smell, the crinkling, the chewing,” she said, waving her hand like it was an attack. “It sets him off. Our son has…sensitivities.”
I glanced at the boy. He was whining about his seat belt and kicking the tray again. To me, he seemed fine—just spoiled and loud.
Honestly, he didn’t even notice my protein bar.
“I understand, but I need to—”
“It’s just a short flight,” she cut me off. “We’d really appreciate it if you didn’t.”
I looked down at my shaking hands. Part of me wanted to explain about my diabetes, but the part that hates conflict won.
Okay, I thought. I’ll wait for the snack cart.
I tucked the bar away and kept checking my glucose monitor discreetly. My numbers were dropping faster than I liked.
Forty minutes later, the snack cart finally came.
I smiled at the flight attendant. “Can I get a Coke and the protein snack box, please?”
Before she could answer, the dad across the aisle leaned over. “No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The flight attendant blinked. “Sir?”
“Our son,” he said, pointing at the boy glued to his iPad, “gets upset when others eat around him.”
What? I thought. Is he serious?
Before I could say anything, the mom jumped in. “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
The flight attendant moved on, uncomfortable but not wanting to get stuck in a fight.
I reached for the call button. The dad leaned across the aisle again.
“Excuse me? Our son does not handle other people eating near him. It sets him off. Maybe you could be a decent human and skip the snack just this once?”
I looked at him, then his wife, then their son, who hadn’t even looked up from his game.
My blood sugar alert buzzed on my watch. I needed sugar now.
The flight attendant came back, and the mom cut in again.
“She’ll have nothing,” she said. “Our son has sensory triggers. 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 it. I’d had enough.
I turned to the attendant, loud enough for half the row to hear, and said, “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. People nearby stared.
One older woman across the aisle gasped and looked at the parents like they’d just said something terrible.
The flight attendant’s attitude changed instantly. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that right away.”
The mom rolled her eyes. “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 my snack and soda. “Your son has an iPad, headphones, and hasn’t looked up once,” I said. “And he’s eating Skittles right now.”
“That’s different,” she huffed.
I nodded and said, “You know what else it’s called? Managing your own kid. Not the entire cabin.”
I scarfed down my crackers and cheese, chugged my soda, and felt my blood sugar start to rise. The relief was instant—physically and emotionally.
Five minutes later, just as I opened my laptop, the mom leaned in again.
“I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition,” she said with a tight smile.
I didn’t flinch.
“Lady,” I said loud and clear, “I don’t care. I’m going to manage my T1D however I see fit, and you can manage your tantrum-prone prince however you see fit. 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 priceless.
The rest of the flight went smoothly. The boy didn’t even look up from his game, and the parents didn’t say another word to me.
That day taught me something important: standing up for your health isn’t rude—it’s necessary.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to say no when others try to ignore your needs.
My diabetes isn’t visible, but it’s very real. I have every right to manage it properly.
No one’s comfort is more important than another person’s health.
And that’s a lesson worth remembering, whether you’re 30,000 feet in the air—or right here on the ground.