Entitled Parents Told Me Not to Eat on the Plane — I Didn’t Listen
You’d think I’d be used to airports by now—delays, dry air, flimsy snacks. But nothing prepared me for the flight to Seattle that turned from routine to a lesson in self-advocacy at 30,000 feet.
I’m Elizabeth, a marketing consultant who travels constantly. I also live with type 1 diabetes, diagnosed at twelve. Most days, I manage it quietly—until I can’t.
On that flight, I skipped breakfast after a rushed client meeting. By the time I got to my seat, I was dizzy. I pulled out a protein bar—my emergency backup—only to be stopped by the mom next to me: “Can you not eat that? Our son has sensory issues.”
I hesitated. She insisted it was just a short flight. That I could wait.
But my blood sugar kept dropping. When I finally asked the flight attendant for food, the boy’s father leaned over: “No food or drinks for this row, thanks.”
This time, I didn’t stay silent.
“I have Type 1 Diabetes,” I said clearly. “If I don’t eat right now, I could pass out. So yes—I will be eating.”
Silence. Then support—from the flight attendant, from fellow passengers, from a woman a few rows back who mouthed, “Good for you.”
I wasn’t trying to start something. I was trying not to crash—literally.
Later, as the mom awkwardly apologized, I realized how often people with invisible conditions are made to feel like burdens. But we’re not.
My story reached further than I expected. A private Instagram post sparked messages from others with chronic illness, saying they’d felt too afraid to advocate for themselves. One even said she gave herself insulin at a wedding—for the first time without hiding.
That flight taught me something simple but life-changing: you don’t owe anyone an apology for taking care of your health.
Advocacy doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes, it’s just opening a protein bar on a plane—even when someone tells you not to.
And once you learn to take up space unapologetically, you don’t shrink again.
That’s the kind of strength that flies with you forever.