I wish I could say I remember a life without you, or the exact moment I met you, but I don’t. I was only eight years old, in third grade, when you became a part of my life. At that age, I didn’t understand what you were or how much of my life you would become a part of.

When we first met you were something I didn’t want to accept. I wanted to be just a normal kid. I didn’t want to be the girl who had to check her blood sugar, count carbs, carry snacks, worry about going low, or explain why I was always checking my phone. I didn't want you following me into school, basketball, sleepovers, or time with my friends. I especially didn’t want you to change the things I loved.

As I got older, you became harder to ignore and harder to hide. My CGM meant I could see you constantly, and my pump became another part of my daily routine. There were site changes, alarms, numbers, calculations, snacks, and decisions that I never asked to have to make. Wearing a CGM and a pump meant carrying a constant reminder that you were there. I became aware of the devices attached to me and, even more, aware of the people looking at them. Sometimes people would stare, and I would become self-conscious, wondering what they were thinking or if they were wondering what was wrong with me. I wanted to explain, but I also didn't want to have to explain. I just wanted to blend in and feel like everyone else.

That self-consciousness followed me into high school. I would think about where my pump or CGM was before deciding what to wear because I didn't want my devices showing. At the beach, I became even more aware of them. I would think about what swimsuit I could wear, where my devices would be, and whether someone would notice them. Things that should have been simple, like picking out an outfit or going to the beach with friends, could turn into another reminder that I had diabetes. There were times when I would go home and cry because I felt so self-conscious about my body and my devices. I hated feeling like I had to hide parts of myself just so I could feel comfortable around other people. I hated that something as small as what I was wearing could make me feel different from everyone else.

There were days when I was frustrated with you . There were days when I was tired of thinking about you. And there were definitely days when I wished I could just forget you were there. For a long time, I thought accepting you meant I was giving into you. But over the years, I started to realize that accepting you didn’t mean letting you control me.

You taught me things I probably wouldn't have learned otherwise. You taught me how to be responsible for myself. You taught me patience when my numbers didn't make sense and resilience when things didn't go according to plan. You taught me that sometimes you can do everything right and still not get the number you wanted.

Most importantly, you taught me how important the people around me are. My parents, my family, my friends, and the people who have supported me along the way have all helped me learn how to live with you. Having people who care enough to understand you has made the difficult days a little easier.

You have been there through some of the biggest moments of my life.

You've been there through basketball practices and games, school, friendships, high school graduation, and now college. You were there when I was eight years old, and you're still here as I start this next chapter of my life.

And honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever love you.

There are still days when you frustrate me. There are still nights when you interrupt my sleep. There are still highs that seem to come out of nowhere and lows that make me stop whatever I'm doing. There are still moments when I wish I didn't have to think about you at all.

But yet I don’t wish you away in the same way I used to. I’ve learned that you are a part of my life, but you don’t get to define my life. I am an athlete. I am a student. I am a daughter, a friend, and someone who wants to become an elementary teacher. I have dreams, goals, and plans that have nothing to do with diabetes, and I'm going after them anyway.

For years I thought being strong meant pretending you weren’t there. Now I know that strength is acknowledging you, taking care of myself, and continuing to live the life I want.

So, Diabetes, I won’t thank you for choosing me. But I can thank you for showing me how strong I can be. You came into my life when I was eight years old. You’ve been with me through my childhood, high school, sports, graduation, and now college. And you will probably be with me for the rest of my life, but you are only one part of my story.

You are part of me. But you are not all of me.