on growing up with chronic illness and the power of finally feeling seen.
I didn’t think I would ever need another Barbie.
I loved Barbies as a kid. I probably had 20 stuffed in a box under my bed that I played with every day, coming up with new stories and personalities for each of them. I lived out some truly crazy scenarios with those dolls, but they served my creative playtime well.
When I grew up, I got rid of them, like most kids do. I gave them to my friends’ little sisters and the younger kids at my dance studio, no longer needing a box of Barbies under my bed, which would just collect dust.
This isn’t an original experience by any means; I know many people who have given away toys that hold nostalgic memories from childhood. At the time, they were just toys. They didn’t have a deeper meaning, and I wasn’t thinking about what they represented — or more accurately, what they didn’t.
Which is why some have found it interesting that my desk in my current college apartment has a doll sitting on it.
THE REASON
You might not notice upon first glance, or even understand its significance, but this Barbie is not like the ones I had growing up. She is set apart by the continuous glucose monitor (CGM) in the shape of a heart on her left arm and the insulin pump inserted in her lower abdomen. Her purse holds a glucose reading device, and her all blue outfit signifies the symbol for diabetes awareness.
She is the first Type 1 Diabetic (T1D) Barbie, released by Mattel in collaboration with Breakthrough T1D, the world’s largest non-profit funder of T1D research and advocacy. My mom told me about the doll right before it was released, and searched multiple stores before finding one to surprise me. Me! A 20-year-old in college who hasn’t played with dolls in over a decade.
And yet, owning this doll meant so much to the newly-diagnosed 11-year-old me, who didn’t see her new chronic illness anywhere. She still lives inside me.
I remember being woken up in the middle of the night and driven to a hospital 2 hours away, where multiple doctors filtered in and out of my room all weekend. They explained carb counts, blood sugar numbers, what a pancreas does (and what mine no longer did), and how this new disease would entirely alter the life I had been living.
And while it was all very overwhelming, new, and terrifying, having an explanation for how sick I’d been getting during the previous months gave me a way to process everything.
This wasn’t the end of the world. It was the beginning of a new one.
LIFE WITH DIABETES
Since that October day (which is now almost 10 years ago), I’ve learned to live with a condition that I didn’t know existed until I had it.
So now, when my friends remember to get me juice if I say I’m low, or ask how I’m feeling after a particularly rocky blood sugar day, or compliment my bedazzled insulin pump (currently my new favorite hobby), I remember feeling so different and misunderstood and confused in that first year after diagnosis. I remember meeting a girl at my school and having lunch with her every week to be with someone who understood my struggles.
I remember so much, but most of all, I remember being unable to see that side of myself in any show or movie I watched, book I read, or toy I played with.
Stereotypically, people hear “diabetes” and think of Type 2, which has to do with lifestyle and diet. But Type 1 is completely different; it’s an autoimmune condition with no cure, and the general public’s understanding of it is still quite limited. Because of this, I have often been my own representative, explaining why I can or cannot eat something, why I may need more time on exams, why I have two devices on my arms, or why I always carry Capri Suns with me, no matter where I go. It is not shown or explained in media very often, and so people don’t see it.
And what people cannot see, they rarely question. When something isn’t visible in everyday life, or in the media we consume every day, it becomes even easier for people to misunderstand it.
The importance of representation
I didn’t realize how heavily the absence of diabetic representation mattered to me until it was there. Without representation, it’s easy to feel like your disability doesn’t belong, and by extension, neither do you. But slowly, strides have been made.
In 2022, Disney+ released Turning Red, which featured two background characters wearing diabetes technology. A recent book I read mentioned a character carrying a blood glucose meter in her purse, along with a few empty juice boxes. Netflix’s Purple Hearts centered around a newly diagnosed diabetic struggling to pay for medical supplies. And, of course, we now have our own Barbie.
Having a Barbie that looks like me means having a part of my identity visible for people outside of my community. It means kids seeing a doll with a device on their arm and learning about what that means. It means that kids being diagnosed can play with toys that look like them, too. What people can see, they can be.
And now, I have a Barbie that looks like me, and like all of the kids who deserve to see themselves in their toys, too.
I didn’t have that when I was 11. But another little girl does now, and it means everything.