I never imagined I’d find myself having to justify eating a protein bar on a flight. Yet that’s exactly what happened when a set of entitled parents decided their child’s comfort was more important than my health. I refused to cave, and the result left everyone nearby stunned.
My name is Elizabeth, and I’m proud of the life I’ve built. I’ve worked tirelessly to become a successful marketing consultant — a career that means I’m constantly on the move. Airplanes, hotel rooms, and rolling suitcases are as familiar to me as my own living room.
Just last year, I traveled to 14 different cities, helping businesses overhaul their brand strategies. Sure, it’s exhausting, but the frequent flyer miles pile up nicely, and I’ve grown fond of hotel breakfast buffets.
“Another trip? You’re practically a wanderer,” my mom always teases whenever I call from yet another airport.
I usually laugh and reply, “It’s worth it.”
And it is. I’ve fought hard for financial stability, professional recognition, and the freedom to live the kind of life I always dreamed of.
But I live with one constant obstacle: Type 1 diabetes.
I was diagnosed when I was twelve, and it’s been my shadow ever since. Unlike Type 2, there’s nothing lifestyle-related about it — my pancreas doesn’t produce insulin at all. That means I rely on injections, careful monitoring, and emergency snacks to keep my blood sugar stable.
If I don’t stay vigilant, I risk severe spikes or crashes, either of which can land me in the hospital.
My doctor told me long ago: “This isn’t a limitation, just something you’ll always need to account for.” I’ve taken that advice to heart. I stash glucose tablets in every purse, keep alarms for insulin doses, and always carry snacks while traveling.
Most people in my life are understanding. My boss schedules meeting breaks, my friends don’t make a fuss if I need to stop for food, and flight attendants almost always get it when I explain why I need that ginger ale now, not twenty minutes later.
But some people simply don’t care.
I discovered that the hard way last month, flying from Chicago to Seattle.
It had already been a grueling morning. I was awake at 4:30 a.m. for a meeting, dashed through O’Hare’s chaotic security, and barely boarded in time. By the time I collapsed into my aisle seat, I felt that familiar lightheadedness — the first warning that my blood sugar was dipping.
Next to me sat a woman in her mid-thirties. Across the aisle sat her husband. Between them, in the middle seat, was their son — around nine years old, equipped with an iPad Pro, expensive headphones, and the expression of a kid who thought the world owed him something.
“Mom, I wanted the window,” he complained.
“Next time, sweetheart. The nice lady couldn’t change our seats,” she cooed, stroking his hair as if he were a prince deprived of his throne.
The boy responded by kicking the seat in front of him. Over and over. The man in front turned and shot a glare, but the mother simply offered a weak smile without correcting her son.
I decided to let it go. It was a short flight. I could tolerate an annoying child for three hours.
Or so I thought.
As the plane began to taxi, my dizziness worsened, and my hands shook slightly. I reached into my bag for my emergency protein bar, unwrapped it, and just as I lifted it to my mouth, the woman beside me hissed:
“Could you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I blinked at her, thinking I must have misheard. But no — she was glaring at me as if I’d pulled out contraband rather than a granola snack.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“The smell, the crinkling, the chewing,” she gestured dramatically. “It sets him off. He has… sensitivities.”
I glanced at the boy, who hadn’t looked up from his iPad. He wasn’t disabled — just spoiled and restless.
“I understand, but I really need—”
“It would mean a lot if you didn’t,” she interrupted firmly. “It’s a short flight.”
I looked down at my trembling hands. The rational side of me wanted to explain my condition, but the polite, conflict-avoiding side won out. I decided to wait for the snack cart.
I tucked the protein bar away, though my continuous glucose monitor already showed my levels dropping faster than I liked.
Forty minutes later, when the cart finally rolled our way, I felt a flood of relief.
“Can I get a Coke and a protein snack box, please?” I asked the attendant.
Before she could answer, the dad leaned across the aisle: “No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
The attendant looked confused. “Excuse me?”
“Our son,” he said gravely, nodding toward the boy, who was still glued to his game. “He gets upset if people eat near him.”
I stared at him, incredulous.
The mother chimed in with a smile: “It’s just a few hours. Surely you can wait.”
The flight attendant, clearly uncomfortable, moved down the aisle without giving me anything.
I pressed the call button.
The father leaned forward again. “Really? He doesn’t handle people eating. Just be decent for one flight, yeah?”
Then the mom piled on. When the attendant returned, she leaned over me and said, “She’ll have nothing. Our son has triggers. If you serve her, he’ll scream the entire way.”
That was it. I was done.
I raised my voice so everyone could hear. “Hi. I have Type 1 diabetes. If I don’t eat now, I could faint or end up in the hospital. So yes, I will be eating. Thank you.”
Every head nearby turned. A woman across the aisle gasped. Even the dad looked momentarily taken aback.
The flight attendant straightened, her tone now firm. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get you your order immediately.”
The mom rolled her eyes. “God, everyone thinks they’re special. My son has needs too. It’s called empathy. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Funny,” I replied, nodding at her son’s tray, “because he’s literally eating Skittles right now.”
The boy didn’t even look up.
“That’s different,” she snapped.
I accepted my soda and snack box with a smile. “Actually, it’s called parenting. You manage your child. Not the whole cabin.”
I downed the Coke, ate quickly, and felt my blood sugar stabilize. The wave of relief was instant.
A few minutes later, the mom leaned toward me again, her voice tight. “I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition.”
I didn’t even blink. “Lady, I don’t care. I’ll handle my T1D the way I need to, and you can handle your tantrum-prone prince however you see fit. If you don’t want to deal with other people eating, book the entire row next time. Or better yet, fly private.”
Silence.
The remaining two hours passed peacefully. The boy never noticed me eating. His parents didn’t say another word.
That flight taught me something vital: standing up for your health is never rude. My condition may be invisible, but it’s very real — and no one’s “comfort” outweighs another person’s safety.
At 30,000 feet or on the ground, that’s a truth worth remembering.