02/26/2026
Remembering the first time I saw both of my boys with their devices on.
Two little bodies.
Two little arms with plastic attached.
Two sons I carried, prayed over, and protectedā¦ now connected to something keeping them alive.
Andres trying to be brave.
Max pretending it was no big deal.
Still my goofy, strong, beautiful boys.
But I had to turn away for a second.
Because it hit me all at onceā¦
I will never see their bodies āemptyā again.
No more just soft skin when I scoop them up.
No more carefree bedtime without checking numbers.
No more sleeping through the night without listening for alarms.
There will always be something attached.
Something calculating.
Something correcting.
Something doing the job their little bodies should have been able to do on their own.
And I grieved that.
Not because the devices arenāt miracles ā they are. They keep my sons alive. They protect them when I canāt. They give me peace in the middle of the night.
But thereās a quiet kind of heartbreak that comes with chronic illness ā realizing your children will always carry more than they should have to.
Type 1 changed our lives.
It changed our routines.
It changed the way I mother.
But it did not break them.
When I look at Andres and Max now, I donāt just see pumps and sensors.
I see strength.
I see courage.
I see resilience most adults never have to learn.
They wear their devices like armor and keep going anyway.
Their bodies may never be āemptyā again.
But they are full.
Full of fight.
Full of bravery.
Full of life.
And as their mom, I have never been more proud.
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