The Anger That Doesn’t Get Talked About
There’s a particular kind of anger that comes with T1D that rarely gets acknowledged.
Not the self-directed anger — the rage bolus, the internal self-attack, the years of calling yourself useless. That anger gets talked about, at least in spaces like this one.
I’m talking about the outward version. The anger at the situation. The anger at ignorance. The anger at a system that hands you a pen and tells you to get on with replicating the function of a complex organ. The anger at being asked stupid questions by people who should know better. The anger that says: I’m not going to pretend this is fine, and I’m not going to be fobbed off.
That anger is valid. And it’s not the same as being aggressive or difficult or hard to manage. It’s the anger of someone who has been carrying something enormous, without adequate support, for a long time — and who has finally decided to stop absorbing it quietly.
What The Anger Looks Like In Practice
It doesn’t mean going around shouting at strangers because they don’t have T1D. That particular version of anger — the rage at others for not sharing the condition — is understandable, but it’s ultimately self-defeating. It produces nothing useful and costs energy you need for everything else.
What productive T1D anger looks like is this:
Not taking nonsense from specialists or GPs who see things purely from a clinical viewpoint and make you feel responsible for the unpredictability of your own condition. Pushing back when the framing is unfair. Saying, calmly but clearly: this condition is complex and I am managing it as well as I can, and “what went wrong?” is not a helpful question.
Correcting ignorant comments from people who don’t know the difference between T1D and T2D. “Did you get that from eating too much sugar?” deserves a response. A clear, patient, accurate one. Not because you owe people an education, but because the alternative — absorbing the ignorance silently — compounds the isolation.
Not allowing yourself to be fobbed off. In medical appointments, in social situations, in any context where the reality of what you’re managing is being minimised or dismissed. The anger that says “no, actually, this is serious and I need to be taken seriously” is not aggression. It’s self-advocacy.
The Strength Myth
There’s a cultural expectation around chronic illness that the person managing it should be strong. Stoic. Resilient. Coping admirably. Not making a fuss.
That expectation is, to put it plainly, a burden you don’t owe anyone.
Being angry about T1D is not weakness. It is an appropriate response to an objectively difficult situation that has been inadequately supported, frequently misunderstood, and sometimes actively made worse by the very systems meant to help.
The anger doesn’t have to be performed. It doesn’t have to be loud. But it doesn’t have to be hidden either.
Saying “I’m angry about this and I’m not going to pretend otherwise” is not a failure of coping. It’s honesty. And honesty, in the context of a condition that too often involves performing wellness you don’t have, is its own form of fierce.
What to Do With It
The anger is most useful when it’s directed outward and forward — at the ignorance, the system failures, the inadequate support — rather than inward.
Inward anger becomes self-destruction. Outward anger, channelled into self-advocacy, clear communication, and the refusal to be minimised, becomes something productive.
Use it to have the conversations you’ve been putting off. To push back in the appointments where you’ve been absorbing unfair framing. To correct the ignorance when it’s worth correcting. To say, to anyone who needs to hear it: this is a serious condition, I am managing it seriously, and I deserve to be treated accordingly.
That’s not aggression. That’s owning it.
Let’s Just Say It: This Is Hard
Still being strong? Living with type 2 diabetes is a full-time job — except you never applied, can’t quit, and the hours are terrible.
And yet, how often do we hear…
- “Just stay strong.”
- “You’ve got this!”
- “It could be worse.”
🙃 Cool. Thanks for the unsolicited pep talk, Karen.
Because here’s the truth:
Anger is normal. Necessary, even.
Especially when you’re juggling medications, managing your food intake like it’s a military operation, and constantly second-guessing your own body.
The Myth of Being Strong
When people say “be strong,” what they really mean is “don’t make me uncomfortable with your feelings.”
But guess what?
Strength isn’t pretending you’re fine.
Strength is screaming into a pillow when your blood sugar spikes out of nowhere.
It’s choosing spinach when you really want chips — and sometimes choosing the chips, too.
It’s waking up, again and again, to fight a battle you never signed up for.
Diabetes and Anger: What’s Really Going On
Blood sugar swings mess with your brain.
Highs make you irritable.
Lows can make you feel shaky, confused, and panicked.
Now add to that:
- Burnout
- Shame
- Fear of long-term complications
- People minimizing your experience
Is it any wonder you sometimes feel like throwing your glucometer out the window?
You are not a “problem.” Your body is trying to cope.
Why You’re Not Broken (Even If It Feels Like It)
You’re allowed to feel furious.
You’re allowed to want a break from constant decisions.
And you’re allowed to say, “This sucks,” without following it up with a silver lining.
Feelings are not a failure of mindset.
They’re a signal that you’re human.
💡 If anything, your anger is proof that you care.
You Deserve Support That’s Real
If this post hit home, I want you to know:
You don’t have to do this alone.
Speak to you soon 🙂
Pete
T1D Mindset Coach
