Diabetes,

I don’t remember life before you.

I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes when I was three years old. You’ve been there for essentially every memory, every milestone, every version of me.

But one of my earliest memories isn’t actually my own diagnosis.

It’s my little sister’s.

I was five when she was diagnosed with T1D, too. I remember the fear and sadness in my family when we heard the news. I was too young to understand everything that diagnosis meant, but I understood enough to know that everyone was scared.

That memory has stayed with me for more than three decades.

And I think it’s a big part of why I’ve always wanted to be open about living with you.

Because somewhere right now, there’s another kid hearing the words “Type 1 Diabetes ” for the first time. There’s another family feeling that same fear. And I want them to know something I wish every family could know on day one:

Your life does not have to get smaller.

Diabetes, you’ve certainly made my life more complicated.

Living with you means making decisions all day, every day. Insulin, food, exercise, stress, sleep, timing, supplies, technology. And then occasionally doing everything “right” and watching my glucose levels do something completely unexpected anyway.

When I was growing up, I sometimes felt like all of that complexity got reduced to a number at a doctor’s appointment.

I remember walking into endocrinology appointments already stressed about what I was going to hear. There were times I left feeling ashamed or afraid—like I was failing at diabetes, or like my future would be defined by complications and everything that could go wrong.

It took me years to understand that managing diabetes isn’t about being perfect.

It’s about continuing to show up.

Thankfully, the tools we have to do that have changed dramatically.

I’ve watched more than 30 years of diabetes technology evolve firsthand. I grew up in a completely different era of T1D management, and today technology like my Dexcom G7 15 Day gives me access to information about my glucose that I could only have dreamed about as a kid.

I’ve also been told that a cure is “just a few years away” for most of my life.

I still hope for that day.

But until it comes, I care deeply about making life better for people living with T1D right now—through better technology, better access, better education, and healthcare that sees the person behind the numbers.

And there’s something else you gave me that I never could have expected:

A community.

The T1D community has become one of the most meaningful parts of my life. It is strong, resilient, welcoming, and filled with some of the most incredible people I’ve ever met.

I’ve met amazing kids living with T1D who inspire me with their courage, their humor, and the way they refuse to let this disease take away from who they are. I’ve met parents and families who fight every day to give their kids the fullest lives possible. And I’ve met adults who have been carrying this disease for years and still show up for one another, share their experiences, and make sure the next person feels a little less alone.

I’ve had the privilege of traveling to Washington, D.C. twice to advocate for the Special Diabetes Program, and I’ve traveled to New York City, Miami, and Colorado multiple times to speak with, learn from, and spend time with people in the T1D community.

Those experiences mean more to me than I can put into words.

There is a light in this community that is difficult to explain until you’ve experienced it. We may have been brought together by something none of us asked for, but what we’ve built from it is incredibly powerful.

I cherish this community. I’m proud to be part of it. And if sharing my story can help one kid or one family feel a little more hopeful about what comes next, then I’ll keep sharing it.

Because after all these years, Diabetes, you have taught me something about myself.

I can carry something difficult without letting it decide where I’m allowed to go.

I’ve traveled the world. I’ve played sports. I moved to Los Angeles and chased a career that already came with impossible odds. I became an actor, a husband, a father. I’ve gone on adventures, taken risks, failed, succeeded, and kept going.

And you came with me for all of it.

So if I could say one thing to you after more than three decades together, it would be this:

You may have changed my life, but you never got to decide how big that life could be.

And to the kid who was just diagnosed—or the parent sitting beside them scared and wondering what their future looks like—I hope my life can be one small reminder:

Take the trip.

Go on the adventure.

Play the sport.

Chase the impossible career.

Do the things that scare you.

Be responsible. Be prepared. Bring the supplies and technology you need. Take care of yourself.

But don’t make your dreams smaller because of diabetes.

You are part of my story, Diabetes. You always have been.

But you don’t define me.

And you definitely don’t get to write the ending.

I do.

— Derek