Never in a million years did I think I’d have to defend eating a protein bar—on a plane, of all places. But when faced with a pair of entitled parents who thought their son’s comfort trumped my medical needs, I realized something: staying quiet wasn’t an option.
My name’s Elizabeth. I’m a marketing consultant, and I practically live in airports. Last year alone, I visited fourteen cities, slept in twenty-two hotels, and memorized more security line routines than I care to admit. My suitcase is always half-packed, my favorite TSA agent knows my coffee order, and I’ve developed a sixth sense for finding power outlets in crowded terminals.
It’s not glamorous, but I love the life I’ve built. My career is fulfilling, the miles are stacking up, and I’ve carved out the kind of independence I used to dream about. The only thing that complicates it? Type 1 diabetes.
