To Be Seen, Without Disappearing
These past weeks—actually, the past couple of years—have been really exhausting. A few kind people have asked me what I’m trying to prove with the pace of life I’ve been keeping, which clearly has already had an impact—not always a good one—on my mental health.
For us, immigrants, proving that we are worth it, demonstrating that we have the knowledge, the skills, and the determination isn't just a wish, it's something we need to survive. We don’t leave the country where we were born just because we feel like it. In some cases, like mine, we do it to access tools that can help us have a better quality of life.
Living just for myself was never an option. And as time goes by, living with a chronic condition makes things more complicated. In some of our countries, it can even become impossible. I know I sound incredibly privileged—and it is exactly that privilege that keeps me going and working every day.
Suddenly, life with type 1 diabetes becomes a constant debate between life and death. It doesn’t matter what your nationality is or where you live.
Last week, after a long and tiring day, I felt exhausted and decided to lie down just for a few minutes after work. I thought—before going to the gym, doing homework, and checking everything that needs attention—just a few minutes.
To my surprise, I fell into a deep sleep—yes, just a few minutes. I don’t usually dream. When I do, it’s because I’m so tired that my body makes up stories to stay active. This time, I didn’t dream much, but in the dream, someone pulled my hair so hard that I woke up angry. My second surprise was how weak my body felt—I had trouble even opening my eyes. When I looked at my phone, I saw my blood sugar had been dangerously low for almost two hours. I woke up soaked in sweat. I had a hard time moving to get something to help me. When my husband came in, he saw what was going on and helped me the best way he could. Honestly, I don’t remember everything.
A few minutes later, I said out loud, “Wow, I almost died,” and continued as if nothing had happened. I opened my computer, checked my email, finished a couple of tasks, and went to the kitchen to start making dinner. Without complaining, I poured myself a coffee and put away the shoes I had taken off earlier.
The next day, I woke up at the same time as always, ready to repeat the same routine. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed by anger and frustration. When did we start thinking this is normal? I realized I was going through a strange kind of grief, one I never experienced before—the kind you feel when you stop being afraid of dying and start accepting it as normal. That grief doesn’t go away. It stays there, asleep but present. We don’t talk about it. And people who haven’t gone through hypoglycemia will never understand it—not fully. Maybe partly because we don’t help them understand.
We believe this is just how life is. That maybe something bad will happen one day—or maybe not. That kind of grief doesn’t come with a day off. Not even one we give ourselves.
When did we decide this was okay? Not fearing death feels a bit like leaving your country behind—like something that should shake you, but doesn’t anymore.
Privilege hurts, quietly, the same way grief does. It’s like longing for the place you came from but not daring to say it out loud—because even with everything you’ve been through, you still feel like you have to earn your place, show you deserve to be here.