If you've ever stood in a kitchen at 2am, alone with a glucose meter and a number you didn't want to see, you know this weight.
Not the weight of the number itself. The weight of carrying it alone.
I've lived with Type 1 diabetes for 36 years now. I've been the kid hiding candy wrappers. I've been the teenager who "forgot" to check before basketball practice. I've been the adult who learned to smile and say "I'm fine" so convincingly that everyone believed me, including, sometimes, myself.
And somewhere around my 50th birthday, I looked back at all those years and realized something that cracked me open:
I didn't have to carry this alone. I just didn't know how to let anyone else in.
Not because people didn't care. They cared deeply. But the system, the questions, the monitoring, the constant checking, made it feel like their caring was surveillance. And somewhere along the way, I started hiding parts of this from the people who loved me most.
This newsletter, this whole guide, is about changing that. About learning to let people in. About finding ways to share what we carry.
It comes from decades of personal experience, and from studying what actually helps when families try to talk about hard things. What I've found is that the tools work best when they don't look like tools at all.
The Fortune Teller you'll meet in this issue started as one experiment among many. Another one was even simpler: when my sweetheart gets a low glucose alert on her phone, she sends a blue heart. I send one back when I'm on the other side, usually about 10 to 15 minutes. That tiny signal replaced dozens of anxious text exchanges. It turns out the simplest tools carry the most weight.
The Fortune Teller
Remember fortune tellers from elementary school? The paper thing where you pick a color, count the folds, and reveal a message inside?
I made one for my son years ago. But instead of "You will marry a princess." I filled it with messages that mattered: Questions I wished someone would ask. Encouragements I needed to hear. Reminders about what was actually true.
I left it on her pillow one night. The next morning at breakfast, she slid it across the table to me and said, "I added some."
Inside, in her wobbly handwriting: "I'm proud of you for taking your shots even when you don't want to."
I cried into my eggs. Right there at the breakfast table, in front of everyone.
It was one of the best conversations we never had to have out loud.
Why Sideways Works
Direct conversations about diabetes are hard. They carry weight. History. Assumptions about who knows what, who's allowed to ask what, who's protecting whom from what.
But sideways conversations, through paper, through silliness, through something you make together, they slip past the defenses. They create space for things that are true but hard to say.
The fortune teller worked because:
It was playful. Folding paper is silly. Silliness disarms.
It was indirect. The messages weren't demands or questions. They were discoveries.
It was reciprocal. He could add her own. It wasn't me teaching him, it was us sharing.
It stayed. Unlike a conversation that ends, the fortune teller sat on his desk for weeks. He'd come back to it.
The Pattern
Here's what I've learned about conversations that actually connect:
The harder the topic, the more you need a sideways door.
Not avoidance. Sideways. A way in that doesn't feel like confrontation.
Because the goal isn't to have a capital-C Conversation About Diabetes. The goal is to let someone know you, and to know them, in a way that includes this thing you carry.
This Week's Activity: Make a Fortune Teller
Download the template below. It has folding instructions and blank spaces for your messages.
Here's what to fill in:
Questions you wish someone would ask you:
"How did that number make you feel?"
"Is there anything I could do that would actually help?"
"What's the hardest part lately?"
Encouragements you need to hear:
"You're doing better than you think."
"It's okay to be tired of this."
"I see how hard you're working."
Reminders about what's true:
"One bad number is just information."
"You're more than your A1C."
"Asking for help isn't weakness."
Then share it with someone. Leave it on their pillow. Fold it together. Let the silliness create space for something real.
For Supporters
If you're the one receiving a fortune teller, or if you want to make one for the person you love:
Don't fill it with advice. No "Make sure you check before bed" or "Have you tried eating less carbs?" This isn't a teaching tool.
Instead, fill it with:
Things you've noticed but haven't said
Questions you've wanted to ask but didn't know how
Appreciation for things you've seen them do
The best fortunes are the ones that make someone feel seen, not corrected.
Bringing It Home
Things to Do Together
Make fortune tellers (one each, or one together)
Share them: pillow, desk, breakfast table
Notice what messages land. Which ones make you pause?
Add to each other's. This works best when it's a conversation.
Things to Ask
"Which message surprised you?"
"Is there something I should ask you more often?"
"What's a question you've been afraid to ask me?"
Things NOT to Say
These come from a good place. I know that. But they close doors:
"This is kind of silly, isn't it?" Yes. That's the point. Silliness creates safety. Let it.
"We could just have a regular conversation." Maybe. But "regular" conversations haven't gotten us here. Try something different.
"What does this have to do with diabetes?" Everything. And nothing. That's the magic. Trust the process.
Shows of Support
Sometimes the best support isn't words:
Sit together while folding
Leave a finished fortune teller somewhere they'll find it
Keep theirs where you can see it
Come back to it days later: "I've been thinking about what you wrote..."
Pass It Along
If something in this issue clicked for you, the best way you can help me is to help somebody else. You don't need to explain it perfectly. Just pass along what helped. Share the fortune teller idea with one person. That's how this community grows: one conversation at a time.
What's Next
Next issue: "The Question That Changed Everything", the one my wife asked that I'm still thinking about years later. And a pop-up heart for writing what you actually need.
Until then: you are not alone in this. You never were.
Trapper
Issue 1 of 10 in "From Surveillance to Support"
Better Together Guide 1
You're not alone. You never were.