From First Playdate to First Camp: Building Confidence with Type 1

Small Moments, Big Trust: Letting Someone Else Step In

Two weeks ago, I asked a friend for a massive favour so that I could restart my Italian lessons. It doesn’t sound like a big deal—but it marked a huge first for me.

It was the first time I left my child—my child with Type 1 diabetes—solely in someone else’s care (outside of school or my husband).

To be clear, this wasn’t just anyone. It was a friend who works at his school and is fully trained to look after him. We’re part of a small UK community here, where the lines between friend and professional often blur. Even with that level of trust, it still felt nerve-wracking.

Because this wasn’t just a playdate.

It was me handing over a responsibility that, until that point, had lived entirely with me and my husband. Monitoring blood sugar levels. Giving insulin for meals. Constantly thinking, calculating, adjusting. It’s always there—running quietly in the background.

And suddenly, I was stepping away from it.

I wish I could say I handled it calmly.

Instead, I double-checked everything as I was leaving the house.

Had I packed his food? I’d already prepared it and worked out the carb count to make things easier.

Had I included the notes so my friend could enter everything correctly into his device?

Had I explained enough? Too much? Had I forgotten something important?

I packed more supplies than necessary—meters, dextrose, insulin, even a spare pump. I gave instructions that felt both too detailed and not detailed enough.

And then came the hardest part: I left.

Having somewhere I needed to be helped push me out the door—but it didn’t quiet the noise in my head.

The moment the door closed behind me, the doubt rushed in.

Had I done enough? Said enough? Prepared enough?
Was I being a bad mum for leaving him so I could go to a lesson?

This is the side of Type 1 diabetes people don’t always see. It’s not just numbers, devices, or routines. It’s the constant mental load—the invisible thread that keeps you tethered, even when you’re not physically there.

Letting go, even a little, feels unnatural.

I checked the Dexcom Share app (which lets you see glucose levels remotely) more than I’d like to admit. But there were no emergencies. No frantic calls. Just a few updates, a couple of photos—and, best of all, a happy child who had simply… had fun.

Squirrel Camp: One Brave Night, One Giant Leap in Confidence

Just three days later, we faced another big first: Squirrel Camp.

The excitement was huge. You might think the successful playdate would have made this easier—but it didn’t, not really.

There was an added safety net: my husband was there as a volunteer, camping alongside the kids. Logically, I knew he’d be on top of everything. But the worry wasn’t really about who was there.

It was about what it meant.

A full night away. A new environment. And me not being the one listening out for alarms in the middle of the night.

We packed everything—then packed more. Spares for spares, and what felt like endless packets of dextrose. In our minds, my husband would be preventing hypos left, right and centre. In fact, the opposite happened. I can’t comment on the ins and outs but an insulin pump being knocked off in the play park was just one of the things that was contended with.

And yet…

T came home one very tired and very happy child.

What an amazing experience and what a resilient little boy.

Our goal is to provide as ‘normal’ a childhood as possible. To not let Type 1 diabetes stand in the way of him experiencing things like his friends.

Yes, we have to think differently. Plan more. Adjust constantly. And, if we’re honest, carry a bit more stress.

But why should he miss out?

For now, that extra weight sits with us—until, little by little, he learns to carry it himself.

And something is starting to shift.

The worry hasn’t gone. I don’t think it ever will. But alongside it, something else is growing: confidence. Confidence to be able to say ‘yes’ to situations and trust others that care for your child.

Because these “firsts,” as hard as they are, aren’t just moments of fear. They’re moments of growth.

For them—and for you.

L x