In my teenage years, the control of my diabetes became more my responsibility than that of my parents that I found myself rebelling against the constraints of my condition. I felt so overwhelmed and alone. My frustration with life was taken out on the management of my disease.

It took a letter from my endocrinologist to rip me from my self-destructive path. I opened the envelope and skimmed along, coming to a paragraph that was hand-written in that curly, familiar script of my doctor.  “Kerri is going through some difficult times at the moment.  She spent most of her time in my office on the verge of tears.  I am concerned.”  Her words were a cold hand on my hot and tear-streaked face.  I needed to gain control. At that moment, I was at the bottom of the hill.  

Viewing my disease as part of what explains me, instead of what defines me, made it easier to accept.  That acceptance started me on the road back to taking care of myself.

 So many moments of a normal day are touched by this condition. My fiancé and I have made the minutiae a part of our lives, which takes the disease off its pedestal and instead makes it part of a seamless landscape of life. Being able to talk freely about my disease – about anything, really – brings my fiancé and I closer and makes our relationship stronger.