Split in Two: When You Have Type 1 Diabetes and an Eating Disorder—and the System Only Sees Half of You

This piece addresses body image, disordered eating, and chronic illness. If you find this subject triggering, please take care of yourself and consider stepping away or reaching out to a friend or professional.

This isn’t just about illness. It’s about being torn between two kinds of care one that listens, and one that demands silence.

When you live with Type 1 diabetes, you’re told your body is complicated but capable.
You’re given choices, Monitors, Technology, A team. You’re taught how to listen to your body, adjust, and live.

However when you also live with an eating disorder, treatment looks very different. You’re told your body is dangerous. You’re given a meal plan and rules. You’re watched. Judged. Controlled. You’re taught that trust in your body is delusional, and compliance is the only cure.

I am one of those people who live in that split.
And let me tell you—it doesn’t just hurt.
It shatters you.

Two conditions. Two treatments. One body.

So lets break this down a little more into the difference in support i have received for my physical health vs the treatment i have received for my mental health.  

With diabetes, my care team checks in & asks questions like:

“How are you feeling?" 

"Are your insulin ratios still working for you?" 

"Let’s adjust if needed.”
“We know everyone’s body responds differently. You know your body the best.”

With my eating disorder, What I hear from my team is:

“You just have to follow the plan"

"You don’t need to understand it.

 "Just do it.”

"You need to try harder, have to be more motivated"  

“You’re not thinking clearly. We’ll decide what’s best for you.”

Do you see/feel that difference?
One says: We trust you.
The other says: You are the problem.

But what happens when they collide?
Try eating when every meal spikes your blood sugar but your treatment plan says “just push through.”

Try managing insulin when your body image screams that every correction is “too much.”

Try recovering when every single aspect of your medical life is already about food, numbers, control and now, recovery wants more of it.

Try navigating a system where one team helps you co-create a plan for your survival and the other that strips you of your autonomy in the name of saving you.

The result?

You disappear.
You become “difficult.”
“High risk.”
“Non-compliant.”

A liability in the eyes of systems too rigid to hold complexity.

But here’s the thing: I’m not resisting treatment. I’m resisting harm.

I’m resisting a plan that ignores the daily insulin, the carb counting, the emergency juice boxes.
A plan that demands blind trust in food, when I’ve spent years being taught to micromanage every gram of it. I’m resisting a system that asks me to let go of control when control is literally what keeps me alive. There is nothing healing about being told that your survival mechanisms make you unwell.

Diabetes made me a fighter. It taught me how to advocate, plan, adapt.
Eating Disorder treatment told me I had to forget all of that to be “recovered.” It’s like having a body that’s already complicated, only to be told: “That’s too complex for us to handle here.”

So they simplify you. Flatten you. Force you into a model made for someone else’s story.
And when it doesn’t work? They say you failed, that you do not want to get better. When really the treatment models that the Eating Disorder system uses was never designed for someone like you.

But I don’t want to choose between parts of myself. I want to be treated as a whole.

I want recovery that says:
• Yes, you’re diabetic.
• Yes, you have an eating disorder.
• Yes, this is messy and complex—but your body still deserves care that fits.

I want a therapist who doesn’t flinch when I talk about blood sugars. A dietitian who understands that some days food is medicine and some days food feels like poison. A system that sees my fear not as defiance, but as a signal: “There’s more to this story.”
I want what every patient deserves: a care plan that doesn’t ask me to choose between staying alive and being free. Because when you live with both diabetes and and a eating disorder, you walk a tightrope every day. One hand holding insulin. One hand battling your own mind. No safety net. No room for error. 

And all I’m asking is: Stop pretending a one-size-fits-all treatment approach/plan is enough for someone holding this much weight. 

To the systems, the clinicians, the gatekeepers of healing: If your treatment model can’t hold someone like me, then it’s not a treatment model it’s a cage.
And I didn’t fight this long just to be locked in another one. If you’re someone walking this road too: I see you. You are not “too much.” You are not broken. You are carrying more than most can imagine. You deserve care that treats all of you—not just the parts that fit the manual.

“Fitting Rooms and Fragile Things” - Clothes Shopping with Diabeties Technology and an Eating Disorder.

Trigger Warning 

This piece addresses body image, disordered eating, and chronic illness. If you find this subject triggering, please take care of yourself and consider stepping away or reaching out to a friend or professional.

They tell you shopping is supposed to be fun. That it’s a little indulgence, an hour of escaping, the comfortable clack of hangers and the soft light of a dressing room where you can try on a version of yourself you like a little better. I go in thinking that. I leave with a tag in my hand and a knot behind my ribs that doesn’t belong to the outfit.

There are two invisible things that show up with me: one is loud and internal — the eating disorder that whispers measures, deadlines on how close I am to failing. The other sits under my shirt, visible through shape and silence — the pump’s faint bulge, the adhesive of a sensor, the small plastic piece that keeps me alive and reminds me that bodies are complicated machines.

Trying on clothes when both of those things living in your body is a practice in negotiation. With myself. With seams. With devices and a condition I didn’t choose to have and rules I didn’t write.

I know exactly how I look in mirrors now. I can list the parts I am ashamed of before the fabric even touches my skin. That voice — the one that counts and judges — lives like a roommate that never pays rent. It argues that a dress will make me look too soft, too visible, too… human. It counts calories in the pleats. It measures the circumference of hips the way other people measure cup size. Dressing rooms amplifiers that voice because the light is honest, and the mirrors do not lie the way my head lies.

They say dresses are effortless “Just throw one on and you’re done.”

That’s the pitch — soft fabric, a single zipper or stretch of elastic, and suddenly you’re “put together.” For me, the idea of a dress is intoxicating: easy, pretty, forgiving, powerful. The reality? It’s a battlefield between my body, my brain, and the little machines keeping me alive.

Jeans, at least, give me somewhere to clip a pump. A waistband to anchor tubing. A pocket to hide something that doesn’t belong in glossy fashion spreads. Dresses are… blank. Smooth fabric, no obvious anchor points, no real hiding places. Where do you put the pump? Where do you route the tubing? How do you sit down without tugging at an infusion set that already feels raw on your skin?

I’ve tried so many “solutions”:

• Strapping the pump to my thigh with a band. But then I’m hyper-aware of it shifting every time I walk, terrified the bulge is obvious.

• Clipping it to underwear or tights. That works until you need to use the bathroom, and then it becomes a juggling act that no one talks about.

• Carrying it in a bra. Which can work with certain necklines… but not with the sundress I want to wear to a friend’s wedding. And not without feeling like a wire box is pressing into my ribs.

Every option feels like a compromise — a choice between dignity, convenience, and invisibility.

There are so many things to think about when your shopping for clothing and wearing diabetes technology, as well as having a Eating Disorder. There’s the pump, the sensor, the tape that insists on sticking to skin that’s already tired of being examined. 

There’s a logistical choreography I never expected to learn: which bras hide the tubing, which waistbands won’t slide under a site, where pockets won’t press on a transmitter. A zipper in the wrong place is not just annoying — it can be a panic trigger. Is there space to clip the pump? Will the sensor be pressed into an uncomfortable angle? Will a tight waistband dig into it and send my blood glucose careening? These are not theoretical questions. They are daily risk and daily negotiation that turn a trip to the shops into an hour of planning a small evacuation.

I’ve tried to be stealthy. I’ve tried to be brave. I have also cried in dressing rooms with a dress pooled around my ankles, a little soundless thing behind a curtain. Sometimes I cry because nothing fits. Sometimes I cry because something fits and my brain says I don’t deserve it. Sometimes i cry because something so simple for other people is an exhausting equation for my brain and sometimes I cry because the pump feels like proof that my body is constantly under repair and therefore not whole, not beautiful in the way advertising teaches us beauty should be.

But there are also small, fierce victories. The bra that has a soft seam but still holds; the dress with a seam that hides a sensor perfectly; the cardigan whose pocket is shallow but exactly deep enough to cradle a pump without pinching. Those moments are tiny reliefs, like finding spare change in a coat pocket when you needed coffee. They are also reminders: my priorities are not always the same as fashion’s. Function is a kind of beauty, and safety is a kind of dignity.

These are not the questions magazines prepare you for when they show “the 10 summer dresses you need this year.”

People sometimes say: “Just wear leggings under the dress and clip your pump there.” Or “Just use a crossbody bag and keep it in there.” Those aren’t terrible ideas — I’ve done both — but they turn the ease of a dress into something complicated and layered. What’s supposed to be “throw it on and go” becomes “layer leggings, adjust tubing, pack a bag, tape everything down.”

It kills the magic. It kills the simplicity. It kills that fantasy moment of spinning in a dress and just feeling light.

And then there’s the bathroom issue.
Have you ever tried to wrangle a pump from under a dress in a public stall? Tugging, untangling, making sure you don’t drop it in the toilet — all while trying not to cry or laugh bitterly at how ridiculous this routine has become? It’s exhausting. It makes me want to give up before I even leave the house.

There is the emotional weight too also consider. Sometimes I wonder if this is why so many of my clothes stay in the closet, tags still on. Not because I don’t like them, but because they feel like a fight waiting to happen. My eating disorder tells me my body doesn’t deserve them. My diabetes tech tells me my body doesn’t fit them. And I tell myself I don’t have the energy to argue with both voices at once.

But the longing doesn’t go away. I see friends in beautiful clothing that i wish i could wear, and I ache. Not because I want to look exactly like them — but because I want that feeling of ease. That casual “I just put this on” freedom. That’s the part chronic illness and eating disorders steal first: ease.

There are, though, tiny wins I hold onto like pearls:

• A dress with hidden side pockets deep enough to cradle the pump safely.

• A loose linen maxi that hides tubing so well it feels like a secret between me and the fabric.

• A wedding where I danced all night and the sensor stayed put, and for once, I didn’t care if anyone noticed the bulge under my dress.

These wins don’t erase the struggle, but they soften it. They remind me that clothes can be effortless, they don’t have to be impossible.

If you are also somewhere in this intersection — of body shame and life-saving technology — know this: you are not the problem. The store layouts weren’t designed for us, and fashion has rarely been gentle to bodies that do not adhere to its narrow scripts. That does not mean we disappear. It simply means we learn new rules. We learn to ask for wider fitting rooms, to try clothes over gentle layers, to inquire if staff can fetch another size so we don’t have to do the whole strip-on-strip-off thing while fragile. We learn to carry tape and a small pouch of supplies like secret armour. We learn where the seams can be our friends.

And yes, there’s fear. There is fear that someone will see, that someone will ask. There’s fear that my vulnerability will be met with cruelty or ignorance. Sometimes a sales assistant will be kind; sometimes the world will be unkind. Mostly, we learn to be our own advocate in the moments when no one else knows to.

I wish designers thought about bodies like mine when they made clothes. Pockets aren’t just a quirky trend — they’re survival tools. Flexible seams aren’t just comfort — they’re accessibility. Longer hemlines aren’t just style — they mean tubing can move freely without tangling.

Mostly, I wish someone told me: you don’t have to choose between beauty and practicality. You can be both. A pump on your thigh doesn’t cancel out the glow of your smile in that mirror. A sensor patch on your arm doesn’t make the dress less yours.

Shopping is not a medical procedure, yet it becomes a management task. I schedule a short grace before I go: a snack that’s safe, a deep breath, a phone with a playlist of songs that make me feel like me. I practice a kind of pre-game pep talk: “You are allowed to want nice things. You deserve to be comfortable. You can take this off if you need to.” It sounds small, but those sentences are stitches in the seam of my day.

I wish the world were easier. I wish dressing rooms had hooks for pumps and soft, private chairs for when your hands shake. I wish sizes were stories and not sentences. Until that day, I fold dignity into my purse like bandages — discreet, practical, necessary. I will not let my equipment be an apology.

If this is your story too, here are a few things I’ve learned — practical and tender:

• Bring a small supplies bag: tape, spare adhesive, and a zip bag to protect devices from accidental spills.

• Try clothes over a thin base layer if you need to avoid exposing sites but still want to check fit.

• Look for high waistbands or side pockets if you need space for a pump; loose knit tops can hide tubing without compressing.

• Don’t be afraid to ask for help in stores — a larger dressing room, a different size, or someone to hold clothes while you put them on.

• Have a breathing technique or quick grounding phrase ready for when the voice becomes loud.

• Celebrate the small wins. They are not small.

I am learning to make peace with the fact that my body is a map marked with medical history, with tenderness and utility. The pump is not a shame; it is a conversation. The sensor is not a scar; it is survival. And the eating disorder? It is a thief in the night. It will try to steal the pleasure of a new shirt, the way light makes a collar glow, the way fabric can feel like a promise. But I am working on reclaiming those small promises.

We deserve to walk into stores and see ourselves reflected honestly — not just the polished versions that magazines sell — but the whole, messy, complicated selves who are doing the work of living. We deserve pockets that fit our equipment and mirrors that do not ask us to apologise for being here.

So yes, the dressing room will still be a battleground some days. But there will also be days when I spin in front of the mirror and laugh — a real laugh — because the dress fits and the pump tucks away and my voice for once is quiet. Those days are worth every second of the chaotic, charged hours that came before. They are proof that there is space for us, that we can take up space, that fashion can meet function and tenderness at the seam.

The trouble with clothing is real — and so is the grief. But slowly, painfully, stubbornly, I am learning that I get to decide what beauty looks like on me. It might mean tucking a pump into a makeshift pocket, or layering leggings under chiffon, or taping tubing in place before a night out. It might mean crying in the fitting room, then trying again next week.

It might mean reclaiming clothing, even if it isn’t effortless, even if it takes work.

Because my body — messy, wired, patched, argued-over — still deserves to spin.

When Eating Disorder Day Patient Treatment Ends and You’re Not Ready (And You’re Still Managing Type 1 Diabetes Every Damn Day)

I don’t know how to explain what it feels like when your told that the intense day patient eating disorder treatment is coming to an end before you feel ready—because sometimes, it doesn’t even feel like you got the intense treatment you actually needed in the first place.

I had to fight to be taken seriously. Because I wasn’t thin enough. Because my BMI didn’t scream “emergency.” Because I looked “functional.” Because I was still showing up to work, for my relationship, to my life—barely, but no one saw the barely part.

And when you live with an eating disorder and Type 1 diabetes, that mask becomes even easier to wear. Because of course I’m tracking my food. Of course I’m weighing things. Of course I’m hyper-aware of every carb, every bite, every blood sugar spike. It’s not disordered—it’s just “good diabetes management,” right?

But inside, it was destroying me.

Recovery for me doesn’t look like freedom from numbers. It means I have to keep doing the one thing that breaks my brain every day: eat, dose, track, repeat. There’s no “let go” button. No break. No pause. Diabetes demands vigilance, and my eating disorder hijacked that and ran with it.

And now, day patient treatment is coming to an end. Not because I’m healed. Not because the war in my head has quieted. But because my time ran out. My allotted time in NHS Treatment ran out. The program said I plateaued. Or maybe they just had someone sicker—someone thinner—waiting for my spot.

They don’t say it like that, but that’s what it feels like.

And I’m left here, still counting carbs and bargaining with food. Still wrestling with the voice that tells me insulin makes me gain weight, that eating is weakness, that I’d be “better” if I just needed less support.

There’s no room in the system for someone like me. Someone who looks “okay.”
Someone who isn’t underweight but is unwell. Someone who’s managing a chronic illness that requires the very behaviours they’re trying to recover from.

And I am so, so tired.

Tired of being brave. Tired of smiling through appointments where they congratulate me for “good control” without asking what it costs. Tired of managing an illness that punishes you when you don’t eat—and a brain that punishes you when you do.

There’s grief in all of this. Grief for the treatment I fought to get, and then had to leave before it could really work. Grief for the way I was made to feel like I had to be on the edge of death just to deserve help. Grief for the body I live in, with its insulin, numbers and constant negotiations.
But underneath that grief, there’s also something else.

There’s the part of me that still shows up. That still doses. That still eats—sometimes even when it feels impossible. That still wants something better than this.
If you’re here too—still in the thick of it, still living in a body that demands everything while your brain fights back—you’re not alone.

You shouldn’t have had to earn your place in treatment.
You shouldn’t have to be thin to be taken seriously.
You shouldn’t have to choose between diabetes management and mental health.

You deserved more.
You still do.

And even if you’re not “better” yet, you are not a failure.
You are surviving something unthinkably hard.
And that is enough for today.

I Am More Than Just My Data Remembering the Person First.

As someone living with diabetes, I understand that the data you see as a healthcare professional (HCP) is important. My insulin pump downloads, blood glucose readings, Time In Range (TIR), and HbA1c levels provide a snapshot of how well I’m managing my health. This data sometimes reflects my best efforts, while other times, despite everything, it will reflect when my levels stubbornly refuse to cooperate. However Living with diabetes is like constantly walking a tightrope and I want to remind you that I am more than just the numbers you see on those reports. 

So do you as a HCP recognise the Human behind the Data that you see in front of you?

For anyone managing diabetes, the routine of checking blood sugar levels is a daily, hourly ritual in some cases. A low or high reading can trigger a cascade of emotions: frustration, anxiety, or even guilt. It’s easy to fall into the trap of letting these numbers define you. This becomes ingrained in us by our health care teams that we are just numbers. The "better" the numbers the "better" we are doing apparently. i think at some point we all wish that this was the case. 

When you look at my data, you see trends, patterns, and sometimes inconsistencies. You see numbers that might suggest I’ve had a bad day, that I missed a meal or two, or maybe overcorrected a low. What you don’t see are the reasons behind those numbers. You don’t see the stress of a difficult day at work, the joy of an unexpected outing, or the anxiety of trying to balance everything that life throws at me, including my Eating Disorder.  

Those numbers don’t capture the moments when I’ve tried my best and still ended up with a result that doesn’t reflect my effort. They don’t show the countless decisions I make daily to manage my diabetes, many of which go beyond what any graph or chart can illustrate. It does not map the hours of exercise i have done to feel like i deserve to eat that slice of bread or the anxiety of taking too much insulin gives me when i do not want to take my insulin at all. These are things that you as HCPs do not see. 

Living with diabetes is a constant balancing act. It’s about making choices every moment of every day—choices that sometimes lead to perfect readings, and other times to numbers that frustrate me. The metrics you see are important, but they don’t tell the full story of the struggle, the determination, or the triumphs I experience.

There are days when I follow all the rules, and my blood sugar still doesn’t cooperate. There are nights when I’m up adjusting my insulin, just trying to get a good night’s sleep. And there are moments of victory when I manage to enjoy a meal without worrying about the aftermath. This is very rare but has happened over the 20 years ive had T1D. But there is an Emotional Toll of Diabetes Management. 

The numbers that you as a HCP see also don’t convey the emotional toll of living with diabetes. The constant vigilance, the fear of complications, the frustration when things don’t go as planned—all of this takes a toll on my mental and emotional health. These are aspects of my life that no download can capture but are just as important as the data you see.

Every time I review my insulin pump data, I feel a mix of emotions—hope that I’ve done well, fear of judgment, and sometimes even a sense of defeat. It’s not just about numbers; it’s about my life, my well-being, and my journey with a chronic condition that I didn’t choose but have to live with every day. There is so much more to living a healthy life with diabetes than what can be measured. Managing diabetes is about balance, not perfection. I need you to see beyond the numbers and recognise the person behind them. I need you to understand that while data is critical for managing my diabetes, empathy and support are just as crucial. I need you to listen to my experiences, understand my challenges, and work with me to find solutions that fit my life—not just the data.

When we discuss my insulin pump downloads, I hope we can do so in a way that respects the complexity of living with diabetes. Let’s talk about the numbers, yes, but let’s also talk about how I’m feeling, what’s working for me, and what isn’t. Let’s collaborate on a plan that considers not just the metrics but also my quality of life.

There is a call for trying to find a balance within diabeties care. While it's essential to keep an eye on your numbers, it’s just as important to avoid obsessing over the numbers. Recognise the patterns that help you feel your best, and don’t let a single reading ruin your day. Your health is a long game, and it’s made up of countless small decisions, not just the result of one moment.

Celebrate the victories that have nothing to do with numbers—like cooking a meal with family or friends, taking time for self-care, or just getting through a tough day. These are the things that define you, not the fluctuations in your blood sugar.

At the end of the day, I am more than just the numbers you see on your screen. I am a person living with diabetes, doing the best I can to navigate this condition while also living my life to the fullest. My value is not defined by my blood sugar levels, insulin usage, or time in range (TIR).My worth is in the way I face each day with courage, and hope.

So, as you review my insulin pump downloads, I ask you to remember that while the numbers are important, they are just one part of a much bigger picture. I am more than the data you analyse—I am a whole, complex individual, deserving of care, compassion, and understanding.

Take back the narrative from the numbers is important. Your life story is rich and complex, filled with moments of joy, love, challenge, and growth. Diabetes is a part of that story, but it isn’t the whole story. You are a PERSON first and a PERSON with diabetes second.

So the next time you see a number on your meter or CGM, take a deep breath and remember: you are more than that number. You are a whole, vibrant, and valuable person, and your worth goes far beyond what any data can measure.

Here are some final thoughts, Living with diabetes is a journey, is a partnership between patient and healthcare professional. Please remember that while my downloads provide valuable insights, they don’t define me. I am more than just the numbers—you see a patient, but I hope you also see a person.  Keep focusing on the bigger picture—your overall health, happiness, and well-being. Remember that you are a powerful individual, and your story is about much more than just a meter reading. Take pride in the person you are, beyond the numbers. Keep going, keep living, and keep being you.

Type One Disordered Eating (T1DE): Awareness Without Action Is not Enough

Awareness is powerful but only if it leads to action. Right now, more people are beginning to recognise Type One Disordered Eating (T1DE), a serious mental health concern affecting individuals with Type 1 Diabetes (T1D). But recognition alone is not enough. Without meaningful change without better diagnosis, treatment, and support awareness becomes just another conversation, while those struggling with T1DE continue to suffer in silence.

What Is Type One Disordered Eating?
T1DE is a condition where individuals with Type 1 Diabetes intentionally manipulate insulin doses, food intake, or both to influence their weight, appearance, or blood sugar levels. It can take forms such as insulin omission, extreme food restriction or purging behaviour. Managing diabetes is already a daily challenge, but when combined with disordered eating, it becomes a life-threatening battle one that is often misunderstood by both medical professionals and the public.

Despite its serious impact on both physical and mental health, T1DE remains unrecognised as an official diagnosis in major mental health handbooks like the DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) or ICD-11 (International Classification of Diseases). This lack of recognition creates barriers to effective treatment and leaves many without the support they desperately need.

If we don't act now to change this, how many more people will continue to be dismissed, misdiagnosed, or left to struggle alone?

The Value of lived experience
Many people with T1DE feel isolated or misunderstood. They often face stigma both from the diabetes community, where strict control is emphasised, and the eating disorder community, where insulin-related behaviours may not be well understood. Recognising T1DE as a distinct condition would validate their experiences, helping them feel seen, heard, and taken seriously.

Research Advancements
The lack of formal diagnostic criteria has slowed progress in understanding and treating T1DE. Recognition would drive more research into the causes and risk factors of T1DE.

• Prevention strategies to reduce its occurrence.
• Effective treatment methods tailored specifically for T1DE patients.
• More research means better treatments, better education, and ultimately, better outcomes.

Reduction in Life-Threatening Risks
T1DE is not just about disordered eating it has severe, life-threatening consequences. The combination of untreated diabetes and an eating disorder increases the risk of:

• Diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA) a potentially fatal complication caused by lack of insulin.
• Severe blood sugar fluctuations, leading to long-term organ damage.
• Higher rates of hospitalisation and mortality.

With early identification and intervention, we can save lives.

Barriers to Recognition: Why Has T1DE Not Been Acknowledged?
One of the biggest reasons T1DE remains unrecognized is its complexity. It overlaps with existing conditions such as eating disorders, diabetes-related distress, and anxiety disorders, making it difficult to categorise. Additionally, healthcare systems often separate mental and physical health, leading to gaps in treatment and understanding.
But ignoring T1DE does not make it go away it only makes it harder for those suffering to get the help they need.

A Call to Action: Awareness Must Lead to Change
Its time for action. Raising awareness is important, but we need more than conversations We need real change. Heres how we can make that happen:
Advocate for Awareness Share stories, host educational events, and amplify the voices of those affected by T1DE.

• Push for Medical Recognition Support efforts to include T1DE in diagnostic handbooks like the DSM and ICD.
• Encourage Interdisciplinary Collaboration Foster partnerships between endocrinologists, mental health professionals, and dietitian's to develop comprehensive treatment approaches.
• Support Research Fund and participate in studies that explore the impact of T1DE and effective interventions.

Conclusion: This Is a Matter of Life and Death
Type One Disordered Eating is a hidden crisis within the Type 1 Diabetes community. Its lack of recognition as an official diagnosis prevents progress, blocks treatment, and leaves people suffering alone. By formally acknowledging T1DE, we can create better resources, reduce stigma, and ultimately save lives.

This is not just about awareness it is about action. It’s about demanding change. It’s about making sure that those living with T1DE don't have to fight this battle alone.
Now is the time to push forward. Now is the time to make T1DE a recognised, treatable, and understood condition. Let’s turn awareness into action because lives depend on it.