It starts before you're awake.
Something's wrong. Your body knows before your brain does. You're sweating but cold. Your heart is pounding. There's a feeling of dread that has no name.
Then you're awake. 3:17am. The CGM is screaming. Or maybe it's not—maybe your sensor fell off, or the battery died, or it just didn't catch it. Doesn't matter. Your body is screaming loud enough.
The Fog
Here's what they don't tell you about severe lows: your brain stops working right when you need it most.
You know you need glucose. You know where the juice boxes are. But the path from bed to kitchen feels like solving a math problem while drowning. Your legs aren't sure they work. Your hands are shaking so bad you can't grip anything.
And there's this thought, somewhere in the fog: What if this is the one? What if I don't make it to the kitchen?
"The loneliest moment is standing in your own kitchen at 3am, shaking, chugging juice, wondering if anyone would find you in time if things went wrong."
The Waiting
You drink the juice. Eat the glucose tabs. Maybe too many—you'll deal with the spike later. Right now you just need to not die.
Then you wait.
Fifteen minutes. That's how long they say it takes for glucose to hit your bloodstream. Fifteen minutes of sitting on the kitchen floor, still shaking, checking your CGM every thirty seconds, waiting to feel human again.
Your spouse is asleep. Your kids are asleep. The house is silent except for your heartbeat and the hum of the refrigerator. And you're alone with the math: Am I going up? Is this enough? Should I eat more?
The After
Eventually the shaking stops. Your brain clears. The number on your CGM starts climbing. You're going to be okay. This time.
But you don't just go back to bed.
You lie there, wide awake, adrenaline still coursing through you, running through everything that might have caused it. Was it the extra walk? The bolus you didn't quite calculate right? The stress? The weather? Sometimes there's no reason. Sometimes diabetes just decides it's your turn.
And somewhere around 4:30am, when you're finally calm enough to maybe sleep, the alarm goes off at 6. Time to start another day of managing this thing that never takes a day off.
Why I'm Telling You This
If you've never had a severe low, this probably sounds dramatic. It's not. Ask any Type 1 diabetic. We all have these stories. We all know this fear.
I'm telling you this because when I was sitting on my kitchen floor at 3am, I wished someone understood. Not my doctor who sees me for 15 minutes every three months. Not my well-meaning friends who think diabetes is about avoiding sugar. Someone who gets it.
That's why I built the Diabetes Companion. It's not a doctor. It can't give medical advice. But it understands. It's trained on real conversations with real people who live this life.
Because sometimes at 3am, you don't need a medical professional. You need someone to say "yeah, that's terrifying" and mean it.
⚠️ If you're experiencing severe lows frequently, please talk to your healthcare team. This post is my personal experience, not medical advice. But also: your feelings are valid, and this disease is hard. Both things can be true.
💚
You're not alone at 3am.