The Night My Body Didn’t Wait for Me to Wake Up

Last night, I woke up. Not really awake, but in that weird space in between dreaming and being awake. My eyes were still closed, my body felt heavy, and my head was somewhere else entirely. At first, nothing felt urgent. It just felt strange, my body felt empty, far away, like I wasn’t fully in it. There were these tiny tingles everywhere. They were subtle, but they weren’t something I could ignore. Honestly, my first thought wasn’t that something was wrong; I tried to convince myself that maybe I was just relaxed, that maybe this was just what deep sleep felt like.

But my body already knew it wasn’t. Oh… right. Diabetes. And then suddenly it clicked. Diabetes. Hypo. You need sugar. I remember telling myself that, not once, but multiple times, like I needed to convince my own brain to function. I told myself to get up, to do something, but I didn’t move. At the exact same time, everything in me wanted to stay exactly where I was. Stay in bed. Don’t move. Just sleep.

The mental fog of a nighttime hypo

That’s the weird part about a hypo: it’s not just your body that’s off, your mind is too. The thing that’s supposed to help you is the very thing that slows you down. So I just lay there for a bit, thinking I should move but staying perfectly still. I don’t know how long it lasted—maybe seconds, but it felt much longer. At some point I just… went. Not because it suddenly felt easy, but because I knew I had to.

I got up in the dark and immediately felt it; my body wasn’t stable. Walking felt off, like I had to really focus just to not bump into things. And still, even then, this irrational thought popped up: Don’t wake Kevin. It makes no sense if you think about it, but in that moment, it felt vital. Like I should just handle it myself. Quietly.

Searching for sugar in the dark

I walked to the kitchen with one goal: get sugar. That’s it. But my head kept drifting. I’d start doing something and then forget what I was doing, or I’d think about something completely irrelevant. I grabbed for juice, then stopped. What if I go low again later tonight? I had no idea why that thought came up, but it did, so I decided I needed something solid.

I found a banana in the fridge, and even that felt like a massive task. Opening it took effort. I opened the fridge again for light, but then immediately panicked: Don’t leave it open too long, it will start beeping. Just like that, I was focused on the fridge instead of the actual problem. I had to pull myself back again. Eat. Just eat. I ate the banana and then thought: don’t leave the peel here. So I walked all the way to the bathroom to throw it away, because that was the only place I could do it without opening doors or making noise.

The lingering anxiety of a low

Even writing this, it sounds ridiculous. But that’s what a hypo does; it makes everything blurry and weirdly unimportant things suddenly feel important. Back in bed, the waiting started. Was this enough? Should I have taken juice as well? What if this wasn’t enough and I don’t wake up? What if I took too little? What if I go too high now and feel terrible tomorrow? Those two voices—the one that’s terrified and the one that’s done this a thousand times—just went back and forth.

And then another thought came in, hitting harder than the hypo: In two weeks, this won’t be my house anymore. Right now, even like this, half asleep, low, and confused, I know exactly where everything is. I can do this almost on autopilot. But soon, I won’t have that. Different places, different kitchens, different routines. No fixed setup. That suddenly felt big. Can I actually do this? Am I underestimating this? Is it really that simple to think that because diabetes is everywhere, I’ll be fine?

Trusting myself through the uncertainty

And even then, in that moment, not fully clear, still low, still tired… the answer didn’t change. Yes. Not because it’s easy, or because I have control, or because I’ve figured it all out. But because I trust myself. I trust that I will figure things out when I need to. That I will prepare. That I will ask for help if needed. That I won’t just ignore it anymore.

There will be moments like this, probably many more. But there will also always be a next step. And I’ll take it. I didn’t feel completely okay yet—still a bit shaky, still tired—but eventually, I fell asleep again. Not because everything was perfect, but because somewhere underneath all of it, I knew: I’m not doing this blindly. I’m not doing this irresponsibly. I’m choosing this. Fully. Even on nights like this.

If there’s one reason I share moments like this, it’s this.

To give a real insight into what a hypo actually feels like. Not the clinical version. Not the numbers. But the confusion, the hesitation, the strange thoughts in the middle of the night when your body is trying to get your attention.

And also… for anyone living with type 1 diabetes who recognizes this.

You’re not the only one lying in bed, negotiating with yourself. You’re not the only one who sometimes reacts too late, doubts yourself, or just feels completely off.

You’re not alone in this.

If you want to follow what it really looks like to travel the world with type 1 diabetes, this is where the story begins.