I never imagined I’d have to fight for the right to eat a protein bar on a plane. But when confronted with entitled parents who believed their son’s tantrum-free comfort mattered more than my health, I didn’t back down. What happened next left our entire row in stunned silence.

My name is Elizabeth. I’m a marketing consultant who travels constantly for work—14 cities last year alone. But one consistent complication I live with is type 1 diabetes.

I’ve had it since I was 12. It means my pancreas doesn’t produce insulin, so I rely on shots, careful monitoring, and a steady routine to avoid dangerous blood sugar highs or lows. I carry glucose pills, set reminders, and always keep snacks on hand—especially while traveling.

But not everyone gets it. Like the parents I sat next to on a recent flight from Chicago to Seattle.

That morning had already been chaotic, by the time I took my aisle seat, I could already feel that familiar lightheaded warning sign that my blood sugar was dropping.

Next to me was a family of three: a boy around nine, his mother beside me, and his father across the aisle. The boy was glued to his iPad with pricey headphones and a royal attitude to match.

“Mom, I wanted the window,” he whined.

Then he started kicking the seat in front of him—over and over again. The man in front shot a glare, but the mother just smiled sweetly. I sighed. It’s a short flight, I told myself. I can manage.

But as the plane began taxiing and my symptoms worsened—shaking hands, dizziness—I reached for the protein bar in my bag.

Just as I opened it, the mom leaned in with a sharp whisper. “Can’t you not? Our son is very sensitive.”

I froze, halfway to taking a bite.

“Sorry?” I said.

“The smell. The crinkling. It throws him off,” she said. “He has… sensory issues.”

I glanced at the boy. He hadn’t even noticed me or the protein bar. He was immersed in his game, snacking on a pile of Skittles.

“I understand, but I—”

“We’d appreciate it. It’s a short flight,” she cut me off.

Reluctantly, I put the bar away, hoping I could wait for the snack cart. But my glucose monitor was flashing a warning. My blood sugar was dropping too fast.

When the cart finally arrived—40 minutes in—I asked for a Coke and a protein box.

Before I could finish, the dad leaned over: “No food or drinks for this row.”

The attendant blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Our son gets upset when others eat around him. He has sensory triggers.” he said.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I looked at the flight attendant and said loudly enough for the nearby rows to hear:
“I have Type 1 Diabetes. If I don’t eat right now, I could pass out or end up in the hospital. So yes, I will be eating. Thank you.”

The flight attendant immediately nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll get it right away.”

The mother rolled her eyes. “God, people are so dramatic. My son has needs too, you know! It’s called empathy.”

“He has an iPad, headphones, and he’s eating Skittles,” I replied. “He hasn’t even noticed anyone else eating.”

A few minutes later, the mom leaned in again, that faux-sweet tone returning. “I feel a calling to educate you about my son’s condition.”

Without missing a beat, I said,
“Lady, I don’t care. I’ll manage my diabetes. You manage your tantrum-prone prince. Next time, book the entire row—or fly private.”

She sat back. In silence.

The remaining flight went smoothly. No meltdowns. No tantrums. No problems.

That day, I was reminded: Advocating for your health isn’t rude. It’s necessary.

Chronic conditions like mine aren’t always visible—but they are real. And no one’s comfort takes priority over your medical needs.

Especially not at 30,000 feet.