At the start of the year, a minor accident led Lee to the hospital where routine blood tests revealed something far more life-changing: diabetes. In the months that followed, his dream of becoming a firefighter began to slip away, replaced by anxiety, uncertainty, and a deep sense of isolation.
Zasha’s journey began much earlier, on the first day of Junior College 14 years ago, when what seemed like a simple case of nausea turned into ten bouts of vomiting and, eventually, a diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes. Both would soon learn that the diagnosis was just the beginning. The harder part would be navigating a world that didn’t understand what Type 1 diabetes actually is and constantly assumed it did.
Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune condition where the pancreas stops producing insulin, the hormone that regulates blood sugar.
Unlike Type 2 diabetes, which is largely preventable through diet and exercise and makes up most cases, Type 1 cannot be prevented or reversed. It’s not caused by lifestyle choices, weight, or eating habits. The pancreas simply stops working.
In Singapore, only around 4100 individuals have Type 1. It’s rare enough that most people have never knowingly met someone living with it. This rarity breeds misunderstanding. Family members police food choices. Peers assume poor lifestyle caused it. Strangers offer unsolicited advice about diet and exercise that completely misses the point.
The confusion creates a double burden. Managing a demanding chronic condition while constantly correcting misconceptions. For Lee, 22, and Zasha, 30, this exhausting education has become as much a part of their daily reality as checking blood sugar levels.
Redefining Life As A Diabetic
In the months leading up to his diagnosis, Lee experienced the classic symptoms of diabetes: extreme thirst, dizziness, nausea, and frequent trips to the bathroom at night.
He brushed them off as signs of exhaustion or irregular meals, never suspecting that something far more serious was unfolding.
“I was shocked. I acted out and I wanted to prove that I could still do everything a diabetic wasn’t supposed to,” he admitted.
“Being diagnosed with diabetes has completely changed the course of my life. I wanted to sign on after National Service, but now I’ve had to PES down. My career is uncertain because I don’t know if I can take on jobs that require physical labour.”
Once an aspiring firefighter, Lee now faces administrative work instead. Trading adrenaline and action for a desk.
For someone who dreamed of running into burning buildings, the shift has been devastating. “My career is uncertain because I don’t know if I can take on jobs that require physical labour,” he said. The question of who he is without that dream still haunts him.
While Lee’s diagnosis came unexpectedly in adulthood, Zasha’s journey began much earlier at just 16, on the first day of Junior College.
On her way to school, she began feeling nauseous and decided to head home. A visit to the neighbourhood clinic led to a misdiagnosis of stomach flu, and she was told to drink 100 Plus to rehydrate.
By the end of the day, she had vomited nearly ten times before being rushed to the A&E. There, a blood sugar test revealed her glucose level was in the 30s, when a non-diabetic’s average typically ranges between 4 and 7.
“I couldn’t comprehend it,” Zasha recalled. “Even the nurses were confused because I was so young at that point.”
For both, the diagnosis affected more than their body. It was an identity loss, forcing them to reimagine who they were and what their lives could be.
The Weight of Misunderstanding
Beyond the medical diagnosis came the social one, delivered by well-intentioned friends, family and even strangers who thought they understood the condition but didn’t.
For both Lee and Zasha, the hardest part of navigating a chronic condition was managing people’s perceptions of it.
When Zasha first told her classmates about her diagnosis, she was met with questions like, “You’ve been eating a lot of sweets. Is that how you got this condition?”. These misunderstandings usually came as casual remarks or misplaced curiosity.
She didn’t fault them for their curiosity. They had just learned about diabetes in Biology. But the undertone of judgment stung.
Over time, her friends learned. “Thankfully, they constantly looked out for me,” she said. “They’d check in when I looked unwell or remind me to eat when my sugar dropped.”
But that education took time and patient correction. She had to be the walking encyclopedia of Type 1 diabetes when she just wanted to be a normal teenager.
For Lee, the early months after his diagnosis were marked by similar insensitivity. Jokes and comments about his lifestyle worsened the anxiety he already felt about his future.
“I gave them the benefit of the doubt — maybe they didn’t understand how serious the condition really is, given the lack of public education,” Lee shared. “But at that point, I saw red. I was angry, I felt misunderstood, jealous, and I just wanted to shut the noise out.”
At home, Lee’s grandparents, both Type 2 diabetics, often reminded him to “watch his diet”. Although well-meaning and coming from a place of love, their assumptions and lack of understanding created frustration and tension.
It wasn’t until six months after the initial diagnosis, that Lee finally learnt he had Type 1 diabetes, clarifying his condition but not erasing the weight of being constantly compared to others.
Across both stories, it is clear that good intentions don’t always translate to prevent harm. In a society where public understanding of diabetes remains limited, both Lee and Zasha have had to navigate not only their health, but also the invisible burden of correcting misconceptions, over and over again.
A Gap in the System
When Lee was first diagnosed, his biggest fear was losing his career. Letting go of the dream he had worked toward for years was a blow that took time to accept.
For Zasha, the struggle began much earlier. At just 16, she had to navigate a new school environment while constantly explaining her condition to curious classmates. An exhausting process that took a toll on her mental health.
Both also encountered confusion within the very medical system meant to support them. Lee spent six months believing his condition was caused by poor lifestyle habits, while Zasha’s initial misdiagnosis delayed treatment and heightened her anxiety.
If medical professionals themselves miss or misunderstand Type 1 diabetes, how can we expect the general public to get it right?
A Kinder Community For Those In Need
Over time, both Lee and Zasha found strength in the people around them. Despite the initial uncertainty and misunderstanding, they’ve been blessed with friends and loved ones who’ve stood by them through their journey with diabetes.
For Lee, that support looks like companionship and care. Friends who accompany him for medical check-ups and keep a watchful eye when they’re out together.
“Once, when my blood sugar dipped suddenly, a friend sprinted to buy me sweets,” he recalled with a laugh. “Moments like that remind me I’m not alone.”
Today, Lee channels his experience into community building. He noticed a gap in standard diabetes support groups where most members were either much older or much younger.
So he created a TikTok page and a Telegram chat to connect with others his age living with Type 1 diabetes. Through these platforms, he shares snippets of his daily life and offers advice about a condition often misunderstood.
@leek4nte was nerve wrecking doing this in public but its a first 🙂↕️ #typeonediabetes #diabetesawareness #t1d #dexcomg6 ♬ original sound – sadcollisions_
Zasha, too, has grown to find comfort and acceptance over the years. While she once carried a quiet anger over her diagnosis, she now sees it as part of her everyday life.
Beyond her close circle of friends and family, she’s also found community among other diabetics, a space where they share experiences, offer encouragement, and remind one another that they’re never alone in this journey.
What needs to change
But community has its limits. It can’t change SCDF medical requirements or stop relatives from policing Lee’s diet. It can’t erase the daily exhaustion of managing a condition while also managing everyone else’s misconceptions. What it can do is make the weight more bearable by sharing it.
For both Lee and Zasha, their journeys have become about more than just managing diabetes. They’re about reshaping perceptions. They hope for a society that chooses empathy over judgment, one that seeks to understand rather than assume. The burden of education shouldn’t rest entirely on those already managing a chronic condition. They’re doing their part by building community, sharing their stories, patiently correcting misconceptions.
The question is whether the rest of us are willing to do ours. Learn the difference between Type 1 and 2. Stop assuming we know what caused someone’s condition. Build systems that accommodate rather than exclude.
Will the next teenager diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes face the same battles Zasha did 14 years ago? Or will we finally close the gap between awareness and understanding?
For now, Lee and Zasha want other young Type 1 diabetics to know this: it’s okay to be gentle with themselves, to recognize that it’s okay to stumble, to have bad days, and to break down once in a while. What matters most is finding the strength to get back up and keep going.
How should we be treating those with invisible illnesses?
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