World Diabetes Day 2016

November 14th is World Diabetes Day. It also marks the birthday of Dr. Banting, the man who co-discovered insulin, enabling those with diabetes to no longer die from their condition. 

For this year, I asked my Facebook friends to ask me anything they wanted to know about Diabetes and I’d answer them here. So let’s jump into it!

Allen and I had actually been married for almost 2 years before I was diagnosed. So while I can’t directly relate to Kendall on this one, I do know what it is like to develop new relationships post-diagnosis. 

One month after I was diagnosed, I changed jobs. I’ve always been very up-front about being diabetic and what that means for the people who work closely with me. In my experience, it hasn’t hindered any friendships – my coworkers have generally been curious and many have been massively supportive for the past four years. Of course, none of these relationships has been romantic in nature, but I think that ultimately, there are many good people out there that want to understand and be supportive, and as long as you approach every question with a good, honest, informative answer, then people will be open and receptive of who you are. 

A non-diabetic person should be around 80-120 mg/dL – and many type 2 diabetics should try to stay close to this range as well. Ultimately, this is a conversation that should be had between you and your doctor. I personally have my range set from 80-180 mg/dL. 

Allen has been SO helpful through my journey. He does all of my Dexcom CGM insertions, mostly because I typically want it inserted in places that aren’t easy to do by myself. He also occasionally helps insert infusion sets in hard-to-reach areas. 

Otherwise, Allen is very much hands-off in regards to my care. He’ll wake me up at night if he hears my Dexcom alarming, and if I say “I’m low” he’ll immediately jump out of bed and get me a juice (and then ask what my number is when he gets back). We also use Dexcom share (so I can see my numbers on my Apple Watch) but Allen has one alarm set on that one: He’ll be notified if I go below 40 mg/dL. That way if I’m not with him, he can message me and see if I’m okay, and if I don’t reply then he knows to start calling everyone I’m with (or 911 if I’m alone). It’s a system that works for us but it may not be right for everyone. 

Nope, but there are some I prefer to avoid. Orange juice is the main one. It’s one of my favorite things, but I just can’t ever time the insulin right for it and end up miserable. I usually avoid cake and cookies as well if I can help it. I also will always choose diet pop over regular – I’d rather save the carbs for food instead. I probably should avoid more things, like Chinese food and pizza, but they are just too yummy. 

Yes and no. 

Yes, insulin companies offer coupon programs and discount cards – however, these are usually unavailable to the people who truly need them and they do not address the true problem– sky-high prices for consumers. 

There are a lot of groups on Facebook where people can pay it forward and directly send supplies to someone in need. I actually benefitted from a pay it forward group early on in pumping when my insurance was changing for the year and I was having issues getting supplies because of having to get prescriptions and authorizations. However due to the fact that selling or trading prescription medication is illegal (and if the items were purchased by insurance dollars then it is also fraud at that point) many people shy away from this. (Test strips fall into a gray area because they can be bought OTC)

There are many reputable organizations out there that accept donated supplies to help those in need including Life for a Child, Insulin for Life, and Marjorie’s Fund to name a few. 

I love this question so much because I really had to stop and think about it. But here it is:

You don’t see the repeat lows through the night. Waking up 4, 5, 6 times in one night because your blood sugar won’t come up (or go down). Trying not to overcorrect, trying to figure out what you did wrong/right/different, trying to just get some freaking sleep. 

You don’t see the body image issues. The weight gain as punishment for doing your pancreas’ job, the bruising and scars from poke after poke after poke, the struggle to find clothes you can wear your pump with (dresses with pockets are SO hard to come by). 

You don’t see the hundreds of times I make a diabetes-related decision every single day. I haven’t been to my desk in a while so I missed breakfast, did I already give insulin for it? I hope I didn’t. I’ve been running around like crazy, being way more active than I usually am so my blood sugar will probably start dropping soon. I want to have the cupcakes my coworker brought in but I don’t even have enough insulin in my pump to cover it, I will have to pass for today. 

You don’t see the shame and emotional toll of having a seriously misunderstood and often joked about chronic condition that will likely kill you. You don’t see every time a diabetes myth is perpetuated, or misinformation is spread, or a joke is made in poor taste but people who aren’t directly affected by it don’t care because.. why would they? Human nature – if it doesn’t directly affect you, then do you really care? Not typically. 

If you read through all of this, know that I appreciate you. Any advocating I can do is a step in the right direction. Diagnosis rates are still on the rise. If I can only ask one thing, that is for everyone to know the signs and symptoms of type 1 diabetes. It can happen to anyone at any time – it happened to me. 

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Filed under FAQ, Real life, Support system

Survivor’s Guilt

Earlier today I saw a post in one of the diabetes groups I’m in, and it struck a chord with me.

A lot of the general ignorance of type 1 diabetes doesn’t phase me anymore. I’ve become so numb to the harmful (and completely misguided, ill-informed jokes) that they just roll off of me now.

But this got to me.

The post was an article about the ever-rising price of insulin. Someone had left a comment on the post and the mom of a type 1 kid screenshotted it and shared it in the group I’m in.

Immediately, my stomach lurched and I wanted to cry.

A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind – familiar thoughts that I’ve had many times before, but that doesn’t make them any less troubling.

What if I’m meant to be sick?

What if I’m meant to die?

Survivor’s guilt. It isn’t something that is openly discussed in the Diabetic Online Community. At least, not that I’ve seen. So here I am, proclaiming it – I deal with survivor’s guilt over my diagnosis.

Before 1921 when Dr. Frederick Banting and Charles Best discovered insulin, every single person with type 1 diabetes died. Every. Single. One. At most, they could live a few months post-diagnosis – but it was more of a shell of a life, an existence spent in ungodly suffering from the havoc high blood sugars can cause.

Is my life greater than any of theirs?

What about the people who are on insulin but still pass away due to dead in bed or other complications of diabetes? Or the ones who are misdiagnosed and die.

I shouldn’t be alive. I suffered under misdiagnosis for five months. I should have complications. But I don’t. Why? Were those people somehow less deserving of life than I am?

Is it destined that only the richest of the rich will be able to afford insulin and the rest of us will wither away? If you look on the streets, that’s already the case. Diabetic homeless people die every day because they do not have access to insulin. Are their lives of less worth than mine?

I don’t write this to incite pity, but rather to just air my feelings out. I can’t help that I feel this way, and living in denial of what I’m dealing with will only make things more difficult for me. As someone who already suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder, I don’t need anything else messing with my mind.


Filed under Real life, Support system

GT Legends

Softball season is officially done for me. I have to miss our final game of the season next week because I will be in North Carolina photographing a wedding so tonight was it. Of course, what last game would it be without it being our double-double? We played 4 games in one evening and I’m exhausted!

My husband took photos at several of the games, and I’m so thankful. It is awesome to be able to have these memories. Plus, I had a blast and although we never won a game, I still made some killer plays and played my heart out! I even exceeded my goal – I only wanted to make it all the way home once, and I managed to do it twice in the same game tonight!

At times it was very hard to manage my diabetes while playing. I noticed right away that the adrenaline sends me sky high during a game. I had to wear my pump, Dexcom receiver, Pebble watch and iPhone on me at all times because if I left my dex or phone in the dugout, the Bluetooth would go out of range. If I gave myself an insulin correction for the high, it wouldn’t budge and I’d end up low in the middle of the night while sleeping.

However, I proved to myself (and everyone else!) that I can still play a sport even with diabetes.


Plus, our team BY FAR had the most fun of all the other teams this season. That’s a win in my book.

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Softball and Diabetes

We’ve played 3 softball games so far (well, technically 6, because every day we play is a double header). Every single game, we’ve been mercied. But! I’m having a blast. 

I got hit 3 times in the same spot on my leg in practice one of the first weeks, and it never bruised.. until a week later, when I suddenly had a dark, ugly settling of blood in my foot. It was super weird and took forever to heal (as do all injuries – thanks for that one, diabetes!)

Using my Pebble to watch my blood sugar as mentioned in my previous post has worked very well. However I ran into an unforeseen issue: Tegaderm wasn’t cutting it. We’re having an unusually hot late summer/early fall (it was 83 degrees at the start of tonight’s game!) and I was getting sweaty and gross, and the tape wasn’t staying on. It didn’t help that I was on an old sensor as well, so when I finally pulled it, my skin was a wreck. 

Fortunately, my friend Frank recommended Vetwrap in place of Tegaderm and so far, so good. It confuses people because they wonder why I have a cast on my upper arm (lol!) but otherwise it works great for at softball. I hate how it feels after a shower and it likes to migrate around my arm a little, but it’s a decent trade off. 

The only other major hiccup in softball so far is that I go SKY HIGH while playing. Even though it’s hot and I’m running my butt off for two hours straight, I have consistently hit and stayed at 280-300 for every game. Adrenaline, you suck!

Overall it’s been a great experience. My teammates are all super supportive and when I’m looking ragged, they ask how my sugar is and ask if I need a snack or a break. Nobody makes fun of me or says anything at all about me wearing my flip belt on the field stuffed with my pump, Dexcom, phone, and several rolls of smarties. I’m glad I get to participate – and apparently, I’m halfway decent! 

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Apple Watch vs Pebble Time vs …Softball??

I recently joined a softball league that my work is sponsoring. I am NOT sporty/athletic but I had played in middle school on a league and we were really good (we won the city championships both years, the first year as underdogs!) plus my best friend Katie is the one who started assembling the league. 

Of course, things were way different when I played in middle school. I was 12/13 years old – it was literally half my life ago. I was in better shape and I was not diabetic at that time. 

Today is our first game. I’ve been struggling with finding the perfect bg balance during practices. Most times I’m running ultra high even though it’s been 90 degrees and super humid, but one practice I did crash low and had to sit and smash a few rolls of smarties while everyone else kept practicing. That sucked. 

As much as I LOVE my Apple Watch for monitoring my bg during various activities, I have to do what’s best for me out on the field so I can perform at my best. That’s why I made this decision: I will be wearing my Pebble Time while playing softball. Here’s why!

1) Constant display! The Simple CGM Spark watchface updates every time my Dexcom does meaning I have live readings at a glance! 

1a) I have to sidebar and note that the WatchSugar app I have on my Apple Watch is great, but it only updates every 20 minutes or so. This is an issue on Apples side of not updating Complications. It will be changed in WatchOS3 coming out next week where we can have timely Dexcom updates on the watchface. 

1b) Also note, the native Dexcom app gives live updates but it is not ON the watchface. I have to navigate to it. And then wait for it to update. I can’t use that much time staring at my watch while on the ball field!

2) I will be a LOT less devastated if my Pebble gets destroyed by a line drive than if my Apple Watch did. 

2a) The Pebble is pretty rugged. It has a couple scratches on the face, sure, but overall it’s pretty tough! Sadly I feel like my Apple Watch wouldn’t take the abuse as well. 

3) Since I’m only using it for softball, I shut off all the extra stuff on my pebble. I don’t need my calendar, or text message notifications, etc while I’m on the field. That’s a lot easier to do than switching those settings on and off all the time on my Apple Watch!

4) Battery life. The Pebble lasts way longer than the Apple Watch. Plus it charges so fast, I could throw it on the charger 10 minutes before a game and probably have enough juice for the whole game. Not the case with my Apple Watch. 

One of the big Cons to this setup is that my Move goals on the Apple Watch won’t be accurate. Of course I’m gonna be moving during the games and since I’m not wearing my Apple Watch, my “rings” won’t catch that movement and I’ll look super lazy on those days 😉 But it’s a small trade for the benefits of using my Pebble on the field!


Filed under CGM, fitness

Food food food

I’ve been trying to eat healthier for the past week or so. I started telecommuting (working from home) last week, and after day 2 I realized that the temptation to get something to snack on from the fridge every hour was going to be detrimental. So I started filling the house with healthy snacks. 

I have many friends who are beachbody coaches, or have done competitive body building, or follow IIFYM, or are just legit amazing people who are all on a journey to better themselves. I want to be like that too, so that’s another aspect of my drive to eat healthier. 

My husband, who is the pickiest eater on the planet, decided he wants to try eating better as well. I’ve been making healthier meals, and even bought the ingredients for protein and fruit-packed smoothies and have been having one every weekday morning. 

Of course, it’s been wreaking havoc on my blood sugar numbers, because my body is used to taking in so much junk and much higher amounts of carbs! (Plus I am move physically active now that I started softball – there will be a post on that later). 

Overall I’m feeling more energetic and I’m hoping that I might see a few pounds come off between eating healthier and being more active, but we’ll see. For now the biggest struggles will be finding recipes that both Allen and I will eat (the fajitas were full of compromise lol) and just to not fall off the wagon! The most important thing for me to remember is small compromises are okay – like having a diet pop once in a while (rather than 2x a day, or going cold turkey on them entirely). 

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I’m Okay

I have really been slacking off in blogging. Unfortunately, diabetes doesn’t slack off. Ever. 

I reached my four year diaversary in July without much fuss. I just didn’t have the energy to “celebrate” this year like I have in years past. 

I think I’m dealing with a bit of diabetes burnout. My numbers are still okay, I’m just feeling more.. Blah about the whole process. I’m not nearly as excited to educate others here recently. That’s a weird realization and an uncomfortable thing to be saying [writing], considering that is my entire platform on this blog. But I think we all go through ups and downs and phases. I know I wasn’t always a super vocal advocate so I suppose it would be normal to go through a period of time where I tone down the advocacy a bit. 
Not that I’m any less passionate about the subject. Just less vocal, for now. 

We’ve been very busy on the photography side of the house this summer and it will continue well into the fall as well. 

I’m not ready for summer to end. I’ve been involved in a lot of other activities this summer, including a dodgeball tournament for my work, playing LOTS of Pokemon Go (and even dressing the part), making new friends, hitting up the beach and getting some horrific tan lines, getting my hair colored for the first time in 8 years, and preparing to be part of a pilot program for telecommuting for my work. 

So overall, I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. I have some of the most amazing friends on the planet. I’m enjoying life and of course not letting diabetes ruin any experience for me, even the beach. 


Filed under diaversary, LeWayne Productions, Photography, Real life, Support system

“Use Me On Medical Supplies!”

My insurance changed July 1. I changed to a HSA account, after weighing it out against the other traditional plan my company offered and determined the HSA would be cheaper in the long run. And when I submitted the request for my first new order on this insurance to my medical supply company, this is what I got back:

90 supply of sensors is $1215.48

g4 transmitter is $571.20

90 days of pump supplies is $433.80

12 boxes of  test strips is $284.04


Grand total is $2504.52 but you have a $2000 deductible so the charge will be $2000. Since you’re meeting your deductible, you have a 0% coinsurance, so your next order will be no cost to you.

Yes, I met my deductible 18 days into my new insurance plan year, on my very first order for the year. And I’ll have to meet it again in January. Because I definitely have $2000 just sitting around in an account screaming “Use me on medical supplies!” 

Sadly, those of us with chronic conditions look at insurance plans and think, “How quickly can I meet this deductible?” Because usually, the question isn’t IF we’ll hit it, but rather WHEN. 

Oh, and the kicker: the medical supply company screwed up the calculations at first and were going to charge me $1300 but it kept declining. Turns out my HSA card only lets me spend $1000 max per transaction. Because that makes a lot of sense. 


Filed under Insurance, Real life

Things My Mother Doesn’t Know About My Sexual Assault

This post is written anonymously by a dear friend of mine who approached me recently with an important story to tell, and needed a space in which to tell it. Although this post does not have anything to do with photography or diabetes, it hits close to home for me and so many others as well. Please note, this post may be difficult to read for those who have suffered through sexual assault.


The first time my father sexually assaulted me, I was almost precisely twelve and a half years old. It was a cold, cold night in late February, and I had awakened from a terrifying nightmare and run into my parents’ room. Later, I would look back on this and viciously curse myself for having been such a baby. Who goes into their parents’ room after a nightmare, when they’re twelve? Idiot. You should’ve known better. But in that moment, Mom and Dad’s bedroom was still synonymous with safety. Comfort. Peace. The first few minutes after I climbed into their bed, on my dad’s side of the bed, cuddling with him to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that were still embedded in my mind, were the last time I would ever associate such words with my parents’ room.

My mother was barely awake when I ran into their room, which is why I got into Dad’s side of the bed, and she was fast asleep and snoring lightly within a couple minutes of the time I got into their bed. I thought my dad was asleep, too. It took me years—years—to admit to myself, and later to others, like my therapist and my husband, that he wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t asleep the other half dozen times he sexually assaulted me over the subsequent six months or so, most of those violations occurring in my bedroom. My mother never knew. In fact, there’s quite a bit that my mother doesn’t know—or, perhaps, refuses to admit, or simply does not care to know—about what happened to me during those six months. The first thing that she apparently does not know is that what happened is sexual assault. Not “inappropriate touching” or “a horrible mistake your father made”, as she tends to classify it on the rare occasions we discuss it. “Honey, sexual assault means rape. You weren’t raped. So you can’t go around telling people you were sexually assaulted. They’ll assume you were raped, and that’s not what happened. It could’ve been worse, Honey. Don’t you see? You could’ve been raped, and you weren’t. What happened to you was…was…” She always struggles for words at this point in the description. She always hesitates. “Well, it was certainly wrong, and inappropriate, and I guess you could call it sexual molestation.”

“Sexual assault is any type of sexual contact or behavior that occurs without the explicit consent of the recipient. Falling under the definition of sexual assault are sexual activities as forced sexual intercourse, forcible sodomy, child molestation, incest, fondling, and attempted rape.” (United States Department of Justice, Apr 1, 2016)

The first time, that night in their bed, he slipped both hands under my shirt and started fondling my breasts. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I never wore a bra to bed back then. I was wearing an oversize t-shirt as a pajama top, a t-shirt with a picture of Amelia Earhart on the front. She was one of my childhood heroes, and my grandfather had bought it for me. I never wore it again after that night. I don’t remember what underwear I was wearing, but it was probably something with flowers or hearts or pink and purple stripes. Because I was, after all, still a child.

A child.

More to the point, I was his child.

I can guarantee you that I never once gave “explicit consent” to any of the things he did to me. Not that I was ever asked, but even if I had been, I would never have consented to that. It escalated quickly over the following weeks and months. A lot of it hurt. I bled. I was never technically raped, which I’m supposed to be grateful for, but in every other way, my sexual education came from my father, when I was 12.

“Inappropriate.” “A huge mistake.” Years later, when I finally confessed the abuse to our family therapist and everything came out in a tidal wave of ugliness, my father would tell me that he “just fell into sin. I listened to the voice of Satan rather than the voice of Jesus, when I touched you.” At 16, when he made that confession, I believed that wholeheartedly. That explanation was sufficient for me. It wasn’t until nearly 10 years later, when I began to have suffocating flashbacks that resurrected the memories in horrific detail, that I started to consider the possibility that maybe that explanation wasn’t enough. I started to think that maybe I had been truly, horribly violated, and “the devil made me do it” wasn’t a sufficient enough explanation for the evil that had been forced on me. It took another couple of years for me to be able to admit, to myself and to others, that my father had committed these actions on purpose, with full knowledge of what he was doing and the impact it would have on me later. That realization, paltry as it may sound, shook my foundations and threw my entire world into chaos.

In the years after my father confessed to sexually assaulting me (except he referred to it as inappropriate touching, never using such “harsh, awful” descriptions such as incest, sexual assault, or child abuse), I had toed the family’s party line about the “incidents”, which was: “Your father made some awful mistakes, and he’s so, so sorry for them. He’s repented, and Jesus has forgiven him, and we’ve all forgiven him as a family, so that’s that.” The general expectation was that there would be a shelf life on “dealing with all this”, which meant that by the time I was out of high school, only two years after he confessed, I was met with eye rolls and sighs of disapproval any time I mentioned “all that stuff from the past”.

My parents are still married. My mother never pressed charges against my father. He is not on the sex offenders’ registry and has never been prosecuted, or punished in any way. Only my immediate family knows what happened to me; none of the rest of my relatives are aware. The family’s party line is still firmly in place, all these years later. Therefore, when I reached the point of admitting that my father had intentionally, willfully forced me to perform sexual acts when I was barely into puberty, and that he had violated my innocence in every sense of the word, I couldn’t really deal with it, at first. Now, thanks to a wonderful support system of my husband, dear friends, and a great therapist, I can say this unabashedly: my father sexually assaulted me repeatedly when I was 12 years old, intentionally and without regard for the impact it would have on my life.

And with that admission, there are others, the things my mother does not know and probably will never know about the sexual assaults I endured when I was twelve. Here are some of them:

I thought he was asleep the first time, that night in their bedroom. I had to believe that; I couldn’t accept any other explanation. So I was really confused when he pulled me aside the next morning, before we left for church, and said he was so sorry for accidentally touching me the night before. “We probably shouldn’t bother Mama about this, okay, Princess?”

The next time, he came into my bedroom in the middle of the night. I slept with a couple of teddy bears, and my bedspread was patterned with multi-colored hearts. I still played with Barbies during the day, and some of them were sitting on my desk. Later, I wondered if he had hesitated at all, seeing the teddy bears and the Barbies and the bedspread, remembering that I was still very much a little girl. His little girl. Maybe he hesitated, maybe he paused to think about what he was about to do, but that didn’t stop him.

That was the last time my bedroom felt like a safe haven.

It hurt. I cried. There was some blood, after he left. I was too young to understand why I was bleeding. I assumed I had started my period.

He eventually made me give him hand jobs and a blow job. I never told anyone that until a year ago, because I was so ashamed and so afraid to admit it, even to myself.

He called me Princess, which had always been his nickname for me, but he used it in such a vile way. To this day, the hairs on my arms stand up when he calls me that.

He told me I was so pretty, just like my mama.

He told me to be a good girl and be quiet.

Near the end, a few weeks before the last time he assaulted me, he became increasingly angry and cruel. He put his hand over my mouth and ordered me, between clenched teeth, to “keep your damn mouth shut. If you tell anyone about this, I will beat you so bad you’ll want to call the law.” He threatened to do to my little brother, four years younger than me, what he was doing to me. He knew that that would keep me quiet and compliant, and it did.

I was terrified to go to sleep at night.

I was terrified all the time, actually.

Because I didn’t know anything about sex except that you had to sleep in the same bed as the other person, and my dad was coming into my room and getting into my bed with me, I assumed I was pregnant. I agonized during those six months about how I would explain that to my mom.

The time he asked me to give him a blow job, I initially refused. I cried. I didn’t know what a blow job was, but I had an inherent sense that it was wrong for him, an adult, my dad, to be asking me to give him one. I cried and I said no. At first, he took me in his arms, settled me on his lap, and cuddled me like he used to do when I was little. He held me until I stopped crying, and for a few brief moments, as that scared, shy, awkward, homeschooled, sheltered 12-year-old who didn’t understand what had been happening to her but knew deep down that it was wrong, I thought that maybe it was over. Maybe all this was going to stop and he’d go back to just being my daddy again. That’s what I thought. I remember so vividly, thinking that and sighing with relief for the first time in months.

Then he backhanded me across the face. He took his clothes off and dropped his voice down low, which let me know he meant business more than any of his words could. “When I tell you to do something, you obey. Do. You. Understand. Me?”

I understood. I gave him a blow job. I cried the entire time, because my face hurt where he had hit me, and because I couldn’t breathe with the pressure of him in my mouth, and because I knew I had done something to deserve all of this. I had been a bad, bad little girl, even though I didn’t understand how. I cried because it left an awful taste in my mouth, and because he didn’t tuck me back into bed before he left my room. He just put his clothes back on and walked out. I thought he didn’t love me anymore.

Now, as an adult, I wonder if he ever did.

It took a full year after the sexual assaults stopped for me to believe that they were really over. I lived in a nearly constant state of terror that entire year. I remember almost nothing about that year, except a vague sense of fear and foreboding.

Those are some of the things my mother doesn’t know about my sexual assaults. Those are the things she does not want to know and can’t accept about her husband, the father of her children, the man she’s built her life around for the past thirty-plus years. Those are the things that haunt me at night, that creep up on me in the form of flashbacks and nightmares, the things that make it hard to get out of bed in the mornings, sometimes. These are the things that sometimes make me wish that my mother knew how to be my mother, first, instead of my father’s wife. These are the things that stole my childhood, that damaged my soul, that inflicted more pain than I can ever explain. These are the things that were not my fault, although often I can’t make myself believe that I didn’t play some role in what was done to me. These are the things that make it difficult to have an intimate physical relationship with my husband—not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. My mind and my body remember all the trauma and won’t let me, sometimes. These are the things that my husband and I have spent nights crying over, when we should have been enjoying intimate moments together. These are the scars I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

And that, Mom, is what sexual assault really is.



Filed under Guest Post

Call it Magic

I can never say enough about how grateful I am for the Dexcom Share technology, which is a direct result of the Nightscout developers and the #WeAreNotWaiting movement. They made wizardry with diabetes supplies and pressured companies to make data more accessible. I don’t know how they did it, other than some kind of tech magic. 

I had an engagement session today and I watched my blood sugar on my Pebble watch throughout it. Nothing major happened at this shoot. My life wasn’t in danger due to a rapidly rising or falling blood sugar. 

However, simply HAVING the technology and KNOWING that I was fine the entire time? It’s so beyond the thanks I could ever say. The peace of mind is truly priceless, because when I’m not distracted by wondering what my BG is, I’m able to give 150% of myself into what I’m doing. And that’s when the magic happens. 

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Filed under CGM, LeWayne Productions, Photography