The Day Everything Changed (and How I Learned to Celebrate It)
I still remember the way the patient room felt — organized, sterile, and too clean for the chaos inside me. It was November 8, 2013, the day my world split in two: before and after Type 1 Diabetes. I didn’t know what the diagnosis meant yet, only that it would follow me for the rest of my life. That night, I cried and promised myself I’d never forget the feeling of losing control over my own body.
But what I didn’t know then is that this day — this hard, uninvited, life-altering day — would one day become something I’d celebrate.
Every year. With a milkshake in hand.
“This new season is going to be the place where you will learn a lot. It won’t be easy, but the wisdom you gather here will be worth more than gold.”
When the doctor said, “Lexie, it’s Type 1 Diabetes,” I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I just knew life as I knew it had changed. My mom lived with Type 2 Diabetes. I could see the fear and tears in her eyes. There are just some things you never want to watch your children endure. This was one of those moments for her. My parents came with me to the doctor’s appointment. They shook their hand in disbelief when she made the diagnosis. They fought for me. I had an excruciating fear to needles and blood. So, I didn’t quite know how this would all turn out for me. I would half close my eyes every time I stuck that needle to my fingers. I remember being so scared and so embarassed that I would give myself the insulin shots in the bathroom (in secret) before I entered our college cafeteria. I didn’t want to explain it. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to get through it and survive. But maybe then I should have known that wouldn’t have worked. We can’t just survive through things. We must learn how to thrive. That was what I would do—it would just be the hard way.
I learned to embody this identity in the best way possible. Some days were harder than others. Sometimes I just wanted to kick the wall down and other days I wanted to lie down because I was just unsfure if I could make it through the day. After about a month of living with diabetes, I recognized the difficulty of controlling the disease. I remember feeling the inability to manage it and falling down on the kitchen floor, drowing in my tears. “This will never get better,” I thought. “I will never defeat this feeling.”
A year later, I went to a family dinner and had decided I’d mark this day in a special way. I had heard a lot about diabetic anniversaries and I wanted to celebrate making it a year in some way. Unfortunately, the friends at this dinner didn’t echo the same feelings. They had strong, adamant opinions about my health and how I should take are of my body. I was humiliated, angry even. I held onto this feeling and turned it into action. I realized I could keep mourning that day—or I could mark it differently.
So I bought a milkshake, raised it high, and said, “Here’s to surviving.” It’s a moment of celebrating how your resilience and how you made it through once again. But it is also the only milkshake I have all year.
Living with Type 1 has taught me that limits aren’t always a curse—they can be a calling. It’s made me slow down, pay attention, and depend on grace in ways I never wanted to—but deeply needed.
Over the years, I’ve learned that healing isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. That’s why I love walking with women who are learning to embrace the parts of their story that feel messy or out of control. Because sometimes the very thing that once felt like loss becomes the doorway to freedom.
Twelve years later, I still raise that milkshake high. Not because the journey has been easy, but because God has met me in every hard, humbling place. “Milkshake Day” reminds me that even what once felt like loss can become a marker of grace. This week marks twelve years of Milkshake Day. I’ll raise my cup again—not because everything is easy, but because I’ve seen God’s goodness show up in unexpected ways.
If you’re in a season that feels uncertain, I hope my story reminds you: there’s still something worth celebrating. Even here.
If you’re walking through your own diagnosis, disappointment, or detour — I hope you know this: God isn’t done writing your story. The place that feels bitter now might one day be the very thing that shapes you with the most tenderness and strength. And if you’re ready to find purpose in the middle of what feels uncertain, I’d love to walk with you. That’s what coaching has become for me — not fixing, but walking together toward wholeness.