08/30/2026
Today is Grief Awareness Day and I wanted to share this poem that gives words to the grief that comes with watching your small child go through things you never imagined. That doesnât mean these are the only feelings, this just acknowledges some of the grief felt. If you donât relate or donât like the way itâs worded, that is your right but please do not be rude towards other peopleâs feelings.
Stuck in an Insulin Vial
I didnât know grief could look like this.
Not a funeral.
Not a goodbye.
But a diagnosis.
A little girl.
My little girl.
I never imagined her childhood would fit
inside a vial.
Clear glass, cold to the touch,
holding everything she needs
and everything sheâs lost.
I hold it in my hand
this tiny bottle that decides
if she runs,
if she laughs,
if she wakes up tomorrow.
This glass vial that will follow her
for the rest of her life.
Diagnosis day split our lives in two:
the before, when she was free,
and the after, where freedom is measured
in half-units,
and innocence is punctured
by needles and alarms.
She is only a little girl,
yet already her skin tells a story
of whatâs been taken.
Bruises and scars where play should be.
Tears where giggles used to spill.
The weight of forever
pressed into every drop I draw.
Grief comes in waves.
Not because she isnât survivingâ
she is. She is fierce,
resilient in ways she should never have to be, but will always need to be.
Because she is stuck.
We are stuck.
In this endless loop
of math and insulin,
fear and correction,
chasing a number that never stays.
And no matter how tightly I hold her,
how desperately I whisper,
âI wish I could trade places,â
the truth is unshakable:
I cannot pull her out of that vial.
I cannot break the glass.
I can only watch her grow inside it.
Shaping a childhood inside that glass
while every piece of my heart shatters.
Grief is not just one moment,
it is every moment after.
It is birthdays with carb counts,
sleepovers with syringes,
tiny fingers that should be finger painting,
not finger pricking.
I hate that her freedom is measured in units.
I hate that her joy has to be timed,
counted, calculated.
I hate that something simple like a bath with no robot pieces is something that rarely gets to happen, but something she always looks forward to.
And though I smile for her,
though I steady my hands
as I draw up her life,
inside I am breaking
for the freedom sheâll never taste,
for the innocence trapped
in that vial forever.
