I never imagined I’d have to fight for my right to eat a protein bar on a plane—but when a pair of entitled parents tried to stop me from managing my diabetes for the sake of their son’s “comfort,” I knew I wasn’t going to stay silent.
I’m Elizabeth, a marketing consultant who spends more time in airports than at home. Last year alone, I flew to 14 cities across the country, helping companies revamp their brand identities. It’s a career I love—even if it means I practically live out of a suitcase. The perks are nice, the lifestyle is fast-paced, and I’m proud of the independence I’ve built. But one thing I always have to stay vigilant about is my type 1 diabetes.
I’ve had it since I was twelve. It doesn’t control my life, but it does shape how I live. I carry insulin, glucose tablets, and backup snacks everywhere I go. And when my blood sugar drops, I have to act fast—or risk fainting or worse.
Thankfully, most people are kind and understanding. My coworkers accommodate breaks. My friends know when I need a snack, it’s not a craving—it’s a necessity. Even flight crews are usually helpful. But not everyone gets it. And some simply don’t care.
Like the couple I encountered on a flight from Chicago to Seattle.
I had barely made it onto the plane after a 4:30 a.m. wake-up call, a chaotic rush through security, and a race to my gate. I settled into my aisle seat, dizzy and sweating from what I knew was the beginning of a blood sugar drop.
Next to me was a woman in her thirties. Across the aisle sat her husband. Between them was their son, around nine years old, glued to an iPad with noise-canceling headphones and a scowl that seemed permanent. From the moment he sat down, he complained—about the seat, the window, the seatbelt—and began kicking the chair in front of him. The parents didn’t correct him. Instead, his mother offered syrupy excuses like, “He’s just excited.”
I ignored the behavior and tried to steady myself. But my hands started trembling. I knew I needed to eat something. I reached into my bag and pulled out a protein bar.
Before I could even unwrap it, the mom beside me leaned in sharply and said, “Can you not? Our son is very sensitive.”
I froze, thinking I misheard. But she continued with a glare. “The smell, the crinkling—it sets him off. We’d really appreciate it if you didn’t eat.”
I was stunned. Her son hadn’t even noticed me—he was still fixated on his screen, munching on Skittles like it was a movie theater. I tried to explain I needed the food for medical reasons, but she cut me off again. “It’s just a short flight. Surely you can wait.”
Trying to avoid conflict, I reluctantly put the bar away and decided to wait for the snack cart. But my glucose monitor kept beeping—my blood sugar was dropping fast. Forty minutes later, when the flight attendant finally reached our row, I politely asked for a Coke and a snack box.
Before I could finish, the boy’s father cut in from across the aisle. “No food or drinks for this row, thanks. Our son gets upset when others eat.”
The attendant looked confused. I opened my mouth to object, but the mother jumped in again. “It’s only a few hours. Don’t make it harder for him.”
The attendant, clearly uncomfortable, hesitated and started to move on. I pressed the call button. When the attendant returned, the mother tried one last time to block me from being served. “She’ll have nothing. Our son has sensory triggers. You don’t want a tantrum, do you?”
That was it.
I looked directly at the attendant and spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “I have Type 1 Diabetes. If I don’t eat now, I could pass out or end up in the ER. So yes, I will be eating. Thank you.”
People around us stopped what they were doing. A woman across the aisle gasped. The flight attendant’s demeanor changed instantly. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that right away.”
The mother scoffed. “My son has needs too. It’s called empathy.”
I pointed at her son, who hadn’t looked up once. “He has headphones on and he’s eating candy. This isn’t about empathy. It’s about entitlement.”
As I accepted my snack box and soda, I smiled at the flight attendant and said, “It’s called managing your own child, not the entire cabin.”
I ate. My blood sugar stabilized. I felt human again.
A few minutes later, as I opened my laptop, the mother leaned in once more with a plastic smile. “I feel compelled to educate you about my son’s condition.”
I didn’t flinch. “Lady, I don’t care. I’ll manage my diabetes however I need to. You manage your tantrum-prone prince however you want. But I’m not putting my health at risk because you can’t handle parenting. Next time, book the whole row. Or fly private.”
She said nothing. The rest of the flight was blessedly quiet. Her son didn’t notice a thing. And the parents never spoke to me again.
That flight taught me a lesson I won’t forget. Being kind doesn’t mean being silent. Sometimes advocating for yourself is the most respectful thing you can do. Invisible illnesses are still real. And no one’s “comfort” should ever come before someone else’s safety.
