*Editor’s Note: Elephant is not your doctor or hospital. Our lawyers would say “this web site is not designed to, and should not be construed to provide medical advice, professional diagnosis, opinion, or treatment to you or any other individual, and is not intended as a substitute for medical or professional care and treatment. Always consult a health professional before trying out new home therapies or changing your diet.” But we can’t afford lawyers, and you knew all that. ~ Ed

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It has been months since I last wrote here, and in that time my world has stretched and transformed in ways I could never have imagined.

I packed my bags, boarded a plane, and started university in a new country. I am now studying Biology Honors on the pre-med track at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, a place that feels both exciting and overwhelming all at once.

It’s the first time I’ve lived away from my family. The first time I’ve had to cook meals for myself, juggle classes with laundry, and walk into rooms where no one knows my story. It’s also the first time I’ve had to manage Type 1 diabetes completely on my own—without my family’s quiet but constant safety net in the background.

Living abroad brings a kind of independence that every college student eventually learns. But living abroad with diabetes? That means learning independence twice over.

When I arrived in Madison, my suitcase looked different from everyone else’s. While my peers unpacked posters and snacks, mine was overflowing with insulin vials, pump sites, sensors, and glucagon pens carefully packed into labeled bags. It was almost comical—half my luggage was dedicated not to clothes, but to the tools that keep me alive.

In those first weeks, I discovered what independence really meant. During orientation, my pump alarm went off in a silent lecture hall, and my heart sank as heads turned in my direction. Before the familiar panic could set in, the girl sitting beside me leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry, people’s phones go off all the time. No one cares.” That small kindness stayed with me. It reminded me that diabetes is noticeable only if I decide it has to be—and that sometimes, people are far more understanding than I expect.

One thing that has surprised me here is how much more awareness there is about Type 1 diabetes. Back home, every explanation felt like a performance. Here, people recognize pumps and CGMs. They ask thoughtful questions, not invasive ones. My friends don’t make me feel like a burden when I pause to treat a low; they laugh with me, wait with me, and sometimes even remind me to grab a snack before class. Professors nod with quiet understanding when I take out my meter in lecture. The McBurney Disability Resource Center offered accommodations so seamlessly that I didn’t feel the need to prove or justify my condition.

It’s not perfect, but it is supportive. And that support makes all the difference when you’re 18, trying to balance biology labs, new friendships, homesickness, and the endless math of diabetes.

Before moving, I switched to the t:slim X2 insulin pump. In many ways, it felt symbolic—entering this new chapter with a new partner by my side. The technology has given me freedom: fewer injections, better stability, and more confidence in saying yes to spontaneous adventures. But it has also humbled me. I’ve had tubing snag on my backpack in the middle of class. I’ve had stubborn highs that left me sitting on my apartment floor, head in my hands, wishing for my mom’s voice telling me everything would be okay.

My life at UW–Madison has become a careful dance between struggle and growth. I’m a peer leader in Exploring Biology, helping new students find their footing while still finding my own. I’m part of two research labs where I get to contribute to projects that excite me and remind me why I chose science in the first place. I’ve also just become a CNA, stepping into the medical world not just as a patient, but as someone preparing to be on the other side of care one day.

Through it all, diabetes is never far away. It’s with me in the lab when I have to pause mid-work to sip juice. It’s with me at study sessions when alarms interrupt conversations. It’s with me on nights when I should be asleep, but instead I’m chasing stubborn numbers on my meter. And yet, it is also what shapes the resilience that carries me through.

What I am learning here is that resilience doesn’t look glamorous. It looks like quietly restarting a pump site at 2 a.m. and still showing up for class. It looks like learning to grocery shop in a new city while carb-counting on the fly. It looks like saying yes to friendships, even when explaining diabetes feels exhausting.

I am also learning that independence isn’t about distance. It’s about balance—between trusting myself and leaning on others, between chasing my academic goals and remembering to laugh late at night in my apartment, between embracing a new culture and holding onto the pieces of home that keep me grounded.

Most importantly, I am learning that diabetes doesn’t define me, but it does shape me. It has made me more aware, more compassionate, more determined. And in a place where people are more aware, more supportive, and more willing to listen than I expected, I’ve found not just survival, but a sense of belonging.

When I look back on these first months in Wisconsin, I don’t just see the challenges. I see the girl who is learning to live alone for the first time. I see someone adjusting to a new culture, chasing her dream of becoming a doctor, and building a community piece by piece. I see resilience woven into the small, ordinary choices of everyday life.

Yes, diabetes complicates things. But complexity is not limitation—it is growth. And as I continue this journey, I know I am not just surviving abroad. I am thriving, one friendship, one lab experiment, one blood sugar check at a time.

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