No More Sorries: Why I’m Owning My Diabetes Alarms in Public Spaces

The "Quiet Floor" of the university library is a sacred space. It is a place of hushed whispers, the rhythmic tapping of laptop keys, and the occasional turning of a page. It’s where I went during finals week, desperate to finish a twenty-page research paper on the socio-economics of the Renaissance. I was in the zone—coffee at my side, three browser tabs open, and my brain firing on all cylinders.

Then, it happened.

From the depths of my backpack, a sound erupted that could only be described as a digital scream. It wasn't a gentle chime or a polite vibration. It was the high-pitched, insistent "Urgent Low" siren of my Dexcom G6. In the vacuum of the library’s fourth floor, it sounded like a fire alarm in a tomb.

I felt the heat rise in my neck instantly. My heart hammered against my ribs—not just from the plummeting blood sugar, but from the sheer, unadulterated embarrassment. I scrambled, hands shaking, to unzip my bag and bury the phone under a pile of sweaters to muffle the noise. I could feel the "burn of a thousand stares." I didn't even have to look up to know that thirty heads had turned in my direction, their focus shattered by my malfunctioning biology.

"I'm so sorry," I mouthed to the room at large, my face a shade of red that matched the alert on my screen. "I'm so, so sorry."

I grabbed my juice box, retreated into my hoodie, and wished I could vanish into the floorboards. In that moment, I wasn't a student finishing a paper; I was a nuisance. I was the person who broke the silence. I was "the girl with the beeping thing."

The Apology Reflex: Why We Feel Like a Nuisance

If you’ve lived with Type 1 or Type 2 diabetes for any length of time, you likely have a "black belt" in apologizing. We apologize for needing to stop and eat. We apologize for the time it takes to calibrate a sensor. We apologize for the clutter of test strips. But most of all, we apologize for the noise.

As young diabetics, we often develop what I call the "Apology Reflex." This is the instinctive urge to say "sorry" the moment our medical needs intersect with the public sphere. We view our condition through the lens of how it inconveniences others, rather than how it affects us.

Why do we do this? Part of it is the psychological weight of "invisible" illness. Because we look "normal" on the outside, our medical alerts feel like a glitch in the social contract. When a person in a wheelchair uses a ramp, society understands the necessity. But when a phone starts screaming because of an interstitial fluid reading, society often sees it as a failure of "phone etiquette."

We feel like a nuisance because we’ve been conditioned to believe that our health management should be silent and invisible. We carry the burden of making everyone else comfortable with our survival. We worry that if we aren't "perfect" diabetics—the kind who never beeps, never lows, and never needs a juice box in the middle of a movie—we are failing.

Reframing the Beep: It’s a Life-Saver, Not a Ringtone

It took me years to realize that my "I'm sorry" was actually a lie. I wasn't sorry that I was staying alive. I was sorry that my survival was audible.

Let’s look at this through a different lens. If a smoke detector goes off in a building, do people glare at the detector? No. They look for the fire. If an ambulance blares its siren through a busy intersection, do drivers roll down their windows to shout "Shh!"? Of course not. They pull over because they recognize that the noise represents a life-and-death situation.

Your CGM (Continuous Glucose Monitor) or insulin pump alarm is no different. It is a vital sign. It is a sophisticated piece of medical technology performing a function that your pancreas cannot. It is not a "ringtone." It is not a notification that someone liked your Instagram post. It is an emergency broadcast system for your body.

When we apologize for our alarms, we are essentially saying, "I’m sorry for having a medical emergency that interrupted your peace." When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Your health takes precedence over five seconds of library silence. Your safety is more important than a stranger’s uninterrupted thought process.

The realization hit me: My alarm isn't a social faux pas. It's a miracle of modern science that keeps me out of the emergency room. Why on earth was I apologizing for that?

The Turning Point: Reclaiming My Space in the Library

The shift didn't happen overnight, but it did happen in that same library, three months later. I was back on the fourth floor, and—as if on cue—my glucose began to tank. The familiar beep started.

I felt the old reflex kick in. I felt the apology bubbling up in my throat. But this time, I paused. I didn't scramble to hide the phone. I didn't flush red. Instead, I calmly picked up my phone, checked the reading, and pulled a pack of glucose tabs out of my bag.

A guy at the table next to me sighed loudly and checked his watch, clearly annoyed by the interruption. In the past, I would have shrunk. This time, I looked him in the eye, gave a small, confident nod, and went back to my work while chewing my tabs.

By owning the noise, I changed the energy of the interaction. When you act like your alarm is a normal, necessary part of your life, other people tend to follow suit. If you act like you’ve done something wrong, they will treat you like you have. But when you treat your medical needs with the respect they deserve, you educate the people around you without saying a single word.

Owning the noise was the most empowering thing I’ve done for my mental health. It was the moment I stopped being a "patient" in public and started being a person who just happened to have some high-tech gear.

Scripts and Strategies for the Next Public Beep

I know it’s easier said than done to just "stop apologizing." We live in the real world where people can be rude or uninformed. Here are some practical strategies and "scripts" to help you navigate the next time your sensor decides to sing the song of its people in public.

1. The "Elevator Pitch" Explanation

If someone gives you a look or asks what that sound is, have a 10-second response ready. You don't owe them a medical history, but a quick explanation often diffuses tension.

• "Oh, that’s just my medical monitor. My blood sugar is a bit low, so I’m just taking care of it. Thanks for your patience!"
• "That’s my 'pancreas' checking in! It’s a medical alert for my diabetes."

2. Handling "The Shushers"

We’ve all met them—the people who value silence over human life. If someone actually shushes you or makes a rude comment:

• The Graceful Pivot: "I know the sound is a bit much! It’s actually a life-saving medical alert, so I can’t turn it off until my levels are safe. I’ll be as quick as I can."
• The Firm Boundary: "This is a medical device for a chronic condition. I’m managing it as quickly as possible, but my health has to come first."

3. Managing Alarm Fatigue and Customization

While we shouldn't apologize for necessary alarms, we can be smart about how we set them to avoid "the boy who cried wolf" syndrome.

• Adjust Your Buffers: If your high alarm goes off at 180 and you find yourself constantly "beeping" in public, talk to your doctor about moving it to 200 or 220 for public outings to reduce "nuisance" beeps while still staying safe.
• Use the "Vibrate First" Feature: Many CGMs allow you to set a vibration alert before the audible siren kicks in. This gives you a "grace period" to treat the issue before the whole room hears about it.

Conclusion: Your Seat at the Table is Non-Negotiable

The world is a noisy place. People’s phones ring with telemarketers, sirens wail in the streets, and babies cry in cafes. Most of these noises are far less important than the one coming from your pocket.

You belong in every space you occupy. You belong in the quietest libraries, the fanciest theaters, and the most intense boardrooms. Your seat at the table is non-negotiable, and that seat comes with a CGM, a pump, and the occasional beep.

Stop apologizing for staying alive. Stop shrinking yourself to fit into a world that doesn't always understand the complexity of your journey. The next time your alarm goes off in a public space, don't scramble. Don't blush. Take a breath, treat your sugar, and remember that that beep is the sound of you taking control of your health.

Live your life un-shushed. You’ve earned it.

What’s your "public alarm" horror story, and how did you handle it? Let’s talk about it in the comments below—no apologies allowed!