Today, Tyas turned challenge into charge….What It Feels Like: Living With Type 1 Diabetes and exploring Neurodivergence…

Hi. I want to share what it’s really like, not just the needles and alarms, but the feelings, the stuff people don’t always see.

I’m being assessed for ADHD and possibly autism. I’ve always felt things more intensely, the overwhelm, the shutdowns, the mood swings, the sensory overload. For a long time, people thought it was just the way I am, But I’ve started to realise it might be something more.

Then, everything changed. I collapsed and was rushed to hospital in diabetic ketoacidosis. That’s when I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes (T1D). It was dramatic and frightening, and it didn’t come with the usual clear early signs. No one saw it coming.

Looking back, it’s hard not to wonder how much was missed. The exhaustion, the emotional dysregulation, the confusion, it wasn’t just blood sugar. And it wasn’t just behaviour. It might have been neurodivergence too.

I’m still figuring it all out. But I’ve learned that understanding yourself isn’t always straightforward. Sometimes it takes a crisis to start asking the right questions.

I love football. It’s my favourite thing. When I’m on the pitch, I feel free, like my body knows what to do even when my brain is busy. I used to be fast. I could sprint, tackle, chase the ball without thinking.

-But before I was diagnosed with T1D, I started slowing down. I couldn’t keep up. My legs felt heavy. I’d get dizzy or need to sit out, and I didn’t know why. People thought I was tired or not trying hard enough, I thought maybe I wasn’t good enough.

It wasn’t that. It was my blood sugar. My body was running on empty, and I didn’t even know it.

After the diagnosis, things started to make more sense. I still have days where I feel slow or shaky, but now I know why. I’ve learned to check my levels before I play. I’ve learned to speak up when I need a break. And I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t mean I’m weak, it means I’m smart.

Now I wear an insulin pump and a CGM, a continuous glucose monitor. They help keep me safe by showing what my blood sugar is doing and delivering insulin when I need it. It’s clever tech. But it’s also a lot.

Sometimes I wish I could take it all off, just be free for a while. But I know I can’t. This tech keeps me alive. I just wish it didn’t have to feel so hard.

I feel things more, and differently. I get overwhelmed by sounds, smells and textures. I need routines to feel okay. And diabetes messes with that.

When my blood sugar is high, I feel fuzzy and slow. When it’s low, I feel shaky and scared. People say “just eat something” or “just test,” but it’s not that simple. My brain doesn’t always catch up with what my body needs.

Sometimes I mask, I pretend I’m fine when I’m not. I don’t want to be a problem. But then I crash later, and it’s worse.

My mum, She gets it. She notices things before I say them. She helps me explain stuff when I can’t. My dad, he’s calm and steady. He helps with the tech and the numbers. They take turns when I need help in the night. They don’t always get it right, but they always show up.

And then there’s my little sister.

She’s younger than me, and she’s amazing. But I know this has been hard for her too. She’s seen me cry, seen me shut down, seen me get angry when I’m scared. She’s had to wait while my parents help me. She’s had to be patient when plans change because of my blood sugar. She’s had to learn what hypo means and why I sometimes need sweets or juice right now.

She doesn’t complain. But I see it. I see how she watches. I see how she tries to help. I see how she worries, even when she doesn’t say it out loud.

She’s part of this story too.

14 November is World Diabetes Day, a chance to raise awareness, challenge stigma, and tell the full story.

They say stigma causes harm, and they’re right. People still think you can prevent Type 1 diabetes, or that it’s somehow your fault. It’s not. My body stopped making insulin. That’s it. I didn’t do anything wrong. And neither did anyone else who lives with it.

But for me, the diagnosis didn’t come with the usual signs people expect. I didn’t fit the textbook. I was already dealing with— things that are now being looked at through the lens of possible ADHD or autism. Back then, those signs were missed or misunderstood. The neurodivergent traits masked the medical ones.

Type 1 diabetes is rare, fewer than 1 in 10 people with diabetes in the UK have it. You can’t stop it from happening. There’s no cure yet. But there’s insulin, and there’s hope. And there are people like me learning to live with it every day, even when the path to diagnosis isn’t straightforward.

This World Diabetes Day, I’m sharing my story not just to raise awareness, but to remind people that health doesn’t always follow a script. And that understanding the whole person, neurodivergent or not, can make all the difference.

I’ve learned to scan my sensor by myself. I’ve explained diabetes to my friends. I’ve had teachers ask how I feel, not just what I need. That matters.

I’ve learned to listen to my body in new ways, even when those signals feel confusing or overwhelming. Fullness doesn’t feel gentle to me. It crashes in, heavy and uncomfortable, like I’ve done something wrong. Hunger is vague, sometimes invisible. I eat because I know I should, not because I feel it. Food textures, smells, even the sound of chewing, they can all be too much. Managing diabetes means tuning into my body, but when you’re neurodivergent, that tuning isn’t always intuitive. It’s a skill I’m still building.

I’m proud of myself. Even when it’s hard. Even when I cry or shout or shut down. I’m still here. I’m still trying.

This Diabetes Awareness Week, I want people to see the whole picture, not just the diagnosis, but the person. Not just the tech, but the emotions. Not just the condition, but the courage.

If you’re like me, exploring neurodivergence and living with Type 1, you’re not broken. You’re wired differently. And that wiring is strong.

And if you ever feel lost in it all, reach out to Aspen. They understand me. They’ve lived it. And in their care, I’ve found safety, support, and the space to be fully me.