Diabetes,

I was still learning how to be a mother when I met you. I hadn't even mastered the basics yet—the sleepless nights, the schedules, the second-guessing—when you showed up uninvited and handed me a job I never trained for. Overnight, I had to learn how to be my daughter's pancreas too.

She was only 18 months old. I remember the doctor with tears in his eyes, confirming what I was suspecting: type 1 diabetes. As a new mom, I was terrified. Underneath the fear, though, there was something else: a fierce, sudden resolve. I didn't know how to do this yet. But I was going to learn, and I was never going to let it control her experiences in life.

Learning how to keep my daughter alive, day by day, hour by hour, was the hardest thing I have ever done. But you underestimated me, diabetes. And you really underestimated her.

She is 12 now. She plays competitive soccer, dances, and skis. She has never once let you tell her she couldn't. In the chaos of just starting middle school, with everything else a 12-year-old girl has to carry, she doesn't complain about you. You’re not the main character here. You are merely a bystander, a subplot in the magnificent story of her life.

What I want you to know is this: you didn't make her fragile. You made her stronger and more capable in every part of her life. People will never fully understand what she carries, because she does it so beautifully that it looks easy. But I know exactly how hard it is, because I was the one learning to be her pancreas while she was still learning to talk.

She is the strongest person I know. And I am so, so proud to be her mom.