Never in a million years did I think I’d have to defend myself for eating a protein bar on an airplane. Yet there I was, miles above the earth, caught between my health and a stranger’s entitlement — and what unfolded left an entire row speechless.
I’m Cassandra Miller. I’m 33, a driven marketing strategist, and a bit of a road warrior. I practically live in airports. In the past twelve months alone, I’ve touched down in sixteen cities, presenting brand solutions to companies hoping to reinvent themselves. It’s a whirlwind life, but I thrive in the pace of it all.
My mom calls me “her modern-day nomad.” And she’s not wrong.
“Another flight?” she always teases whenever I call her from some terminal.
“It’s worth it,” I tell her. And it is.
I’ve built a career I’m proud of, earned the financial freedom I worked hard for, and carved out the kind of independent life I always dreamed of.
But woven into that life — quietly but firmly — is a chronic condition I’ve carried since I was twelve: Type 1 diabetes.
Type 1 means my pancreas doesn’t produce insulin at all. I rely on technology and diligence: insulin injections, glucose monitors, backup snacks. If my blood sugar drops too low or spikes too high, it can quickly become a medical emergency. It doesn’t rule my life, but it demands my attention.
“Not a limitation,” my doctor told me once. “Just a lifelong consideration.”
And I’ve taken that to heart. I travel with glucose tablets in my laptop bag, protein bars in every suitcase, and a constant awareness of what my body needs — especially when I’m flying.
Most people are kind and understanding. My coworkers make sure meetings include snack breaks. My friends know why I sometimes need to stop mid-conversation for a sip of juice or a quick bite. Even flight attendants usually get it.
But not everyone is so reasonable.
Take, for example, my flight from Chicago to Portland last month.
I’d been up since 4:45 a.m. after a back-to-back meeting day. Security at O’Hare was pure chaos. By the time I boarded and collapsed into my aisle seat, I was running on fumes — and I felt that subtle tremble in my fingers. My blood sugar was dropping.
I knew the signs well. The lightheadedness. The clammy hands. I needed something with carbs, and fast.
I was seated next to a family of three. The mom sat next to me, her husband across the aisle, and between them, their son — maybe nine years old, with the latest iPad and a pair of wireless headphones that looked like they cost more than my rent. He was already whining about not getting the window seat.
“But I wanted the window,” he sulked.
His mom brushed his hair gently. “Next time, sweetheart. The airline couldn’t fix the seats.”
Then he started kicking the seat in front of him — over and over.
The man sitting there turned to glare, but the mom just smiled politely. “He’s just very energetic,” she explained, making no effort to stop the behavior.
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing. I figured I could tolerate a bratty kid for a three-hour flight.
As the plane taxied, my symptoms worsened. My body was screaming for fuel. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a protein bar.
Unwrapped it.
Lifted it to my lips.
And then came the voice — sharp, annoyed, and entirely unwelcome.
“Excuse me. Could you not eat that?”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“Our son is very sensitive,” she said. “The smell, the noise… he can’t handle people eating near him. It really sets him off.”
I looked at the boy, who hadn’t even looked away from his game. He seemed more concerned with beating his level than with anything I was doing.
“I understand,” I said carefully. “But I have Type 1 diabetes. I need this.”
“We’d appreciate it if you waited,” she pressed, tone turning icy. “It’s just a short flight.”
I looked down at my trembling hands and hesitated. Part of me — the old, people-pleasing part — felt the urge to apologize. To be “polite.” To wait.
So, I tucked the bar away and took a slow breath.
I checked my continuous glucose monitor. Numbers were dropping fast.
I silently counted the minutes until the drink cart finally rolled down the aisle — nearly 40 minutes into the flight. I leaned forward, relief already flooding me.
“Can I get a Coke and the protein box, please?” I asked the flight attendant with a smile.
Before she could reply, the boy’s father leaned across the aisle.
“No food or drinks for this row, thanks,” he said firmly.
The flight attendant looked confused. “I’m sorry?”
“Our son gets very distressed,” the mom chimed in, “when people eat near him. He’s extremely sensitive.”
The flight attendant glanced at me. “Miss?”
“I have diabetes,” I said, trying to stay calm. “I need to eat something now.”
“I’m sure she can wait,” the mom snapped.
“I can’t,” I said more firmly. “I’m starting to crash.”
The dad rolled his eyes. “She just wants to eat a snack. I’m sure she’ll survive a two-hour flight.”
The flight attendant hesitated, clearly caught in the middle.
That’s when my glucose monitor buzzed on my wrist. I felt faint. I couldn’t wait another second.
“Listen,” I said, raising my voice enough for those around us to hear. “I have Type 1 diabetes. If I don’t get sugar in my system right now, I could pass out. So, yes, I will be eating — whether your son ‘likes it’ or not.”
A ripple of silence spread. Several passengers turned to look.
Across the aisle, an elderly woman muttered, “Some people have nerve.”
The flight attendant straightened. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get that for you right away.”
The mother scoffed. “My son has sensory needs. This is discrimination.”
“Your son,” I said, pointing at the boy, “has been happily eating Skittles off his tray for 20 minutes and hasn’t looked up once.”
The dad flushed, but said nothing.
I tore open the protein box, drank my soda, and slowly felt my body stabilize. The nausea faded. My vision cleared.
And my anger rose.
I leaned over, looked at the mom, and said calmly, “If your child is that sensitive, maybe fly private. But don’t ask strangers to put their health at risk so your kid doesn’t get mildly inconvenienced.”
She glared at me. “You don’t understand his condition.”
“And you don’t understand mine,” I replied. “But here’s the difference — mine can kill me if I don’t manage it. Your child can get over someone chewing.”
The rest of the flight was… quiet. The parents didn’t say another word. Their son didn’t so much as glance at me. No tantrum. No meltdown. Just… silence.
Two hours later, we landed. As we gathered our things, the dad gave me a sideways glance, but I met his eyes with a look that said Don’t even try it.
As I exited the plane, a middle-aged man from a few rows back tapped my arm and whispered, “Good for you.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
That flight reminded me of something important: Advocating for your health isn’t rude. It’s necessary.
Just because a medical condition isn’t visible doesn’t mean it isn’t serious. And no one — no one — has the right to ask you to risk your health for their comfort.
Whether you’re dealing with diabetes, food allergies, or any chronic illness, you are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to do what you need.
I hope those parents learned something that day.
And if they didn’t?
Well, I hope they fly private next time.
