The Healing Power of Being Heard: A Diabetes Talk That Transformed More Than Just a Classroom

It all began with a gently worded email.

“I hope this is okay to ask. I heard that your lad has diabetes. I’m about to teach this to my Grade 12s, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in talking about having a child with diabetes and how you manage this with him to ensure his well-being? You may not want to talk about it, and so no pressure at all, but I know my students love having a tangible link to the real world when I can make it happen. Please let me know.”

Did someone just ask me to talk about diabetes? Seriously? Like, really talk about our life with diabetes for an entire hour?

Maybe I’m the only parent who tries to downplay the whole "living with diabetes" thing to friends and family, fearing I’ll bore them to tears or sound like a broken record. But here was someone—someone—actually asking me to speak about it, so they could listen and understand. And honestly, it was a bit of a shock.

Reilly was sitting next to me on the couch when I read the email. I turned to him and said, “How do you feel about teaching a bunch of Grade 12 students about your life with diabetes?”

He blinked at me, probably thinking, “Do we really have to do this?” But in his typical laid-back fashion, he shrugged and said, “Sure.”

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t as pumped as I was, but he was definitely on board. So, we set to work. We spent the next couple of evenings planning our talk, assembling slides, and brainstorming what to share. We even listed all the things people had said to us over the years about diabetes—those little nuggets of wisdom that drive us crazy:

• “Oh, some little boy must have eaten a lot of sugar!”

• “But technology and medical advancements are so amazing; the tech does all the work for you!”

• “He shouldn’t be eating that cake with his diabetes!”

• “You let him do sports? I heard diabetics can’t play sports.”

  
  

We wanted to be sure the Grade 12s would understand what Reilly’s life with diabetes was really like. So we carefully planned out our talk to paint a picture of our daily routines—the highs, the lows, the real struggles, and the weirdly humorous moments. To make it even more interactive, we added a quiz about carb counting using the nutritional info from a bag of Doritos and a picture of a McDonald’s meal that still sends me into a mini rage every time I have to bolus for it.

The more we planned, the more excited Reilly got about the whole thing. He was really getting into it.

If you asked Reilly how his “teaching experience” went, he’d probably say, “Good.” But there was a certain gleam in his eye when he’d recall the funniest part: both classes thinking he needed to bolus 1180 units for a McDonald’s meal. “Seriously? I can’t even bolus that much! Try again!” he’d laugh. As the expert (ahem, me), I knew they were looking at the caloric value rather than the carbs, which, let me tell you, is a rookie mistake.

There were plenty of laughs during the presentation, and by the end, I think they’d really gotten it: carb counting is an imperfect science, and sometimes we just take our best guess. It’s like playing a weird version of Russian roulette with food. No joke.

Reilly also used his stuffed polar bear to demonstrate how we change infusion sets, sensors, and how insulin pumps work (for those not on the pump, we also talked syringes). He must’ve felt like a little diabetes doctor when the “big kids” gasped in awe and said, “That’s gotta hurt.” Oh, Reilly definitely felt validated at that moment. And maybe just a tad bit proud.

The two classes we taught that day were so curious and engaged, and I couldn’t have been prouder of Reilly for stepping up and sharing his story with a room full of teenagers. His bravery was inspiring. What made it even more beautiful was what happened afterward. A week later, at a school event, some of the students came up to Reilly and invited him to join them in a game of soccer. These kids could’ve easily ignored him, but instead, they saw him—really saw him—and invited him in. A small act of kindness, but a huge moment for a kid with big, grown-up worries.

Isn’t it funny how we can feel so isolated in our struggles? Everyone has their battles, big or small, but we often carry them alone. We don’t talk about the late nights spent battling lows, the failed sensor changes that leave us in tears, or the endless calculations of carbs and insulin. These moments tend to happen in solitude. Diabetes becomes this invisible weight that you don’t want to burden others with, so you carry it quietly.

But that Thursday morning biology class? It got me thinking. How we show up for each other matters.

I can’t even put into words how restorative that experience was—for both me and Reilly. It wasn’t just about us talking, though. It was about how the students responded. Instead of offering empty words like, “Oh, that sucks,” or “You’re so strong, you’ve got this,” they asked questions. They listened. They didn’t just sympathize; they tried to understand. And in that exchange, something healing happened.

When we share our struggles with others, it’s not enough to just hear them. To truly help, we need to listen with the intent to understand. When people open up, whether about diabetes or any other challenge, it’s not our job to offer solutions or pat them on the back with trite reassurances. The healing comes when we stop, ask questions, and really listen.

In the end, that biology class was more than just an educational talk. It was a reminder of the restorative power of being truly, deeply heard. It’s a reminder that sometimes, just showing up and listening with empathy can be the most healing thing we can do for each other.