Traveling with Diabetes: Lessons from My Overpacked 'What If' Suitcase

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday afternoon via a casual group text: "Coastal getaway this weekend? 48 hours of sun, sand, and seafood. Who’s in?"

Normally, my thumb would have hovered over the "Yes" button before I’d even finished reading. But this wasn't "normally." This was three months post-diagnosis. Suddenly, a simple two-day trip to a town just three hours away didn't feel like a vacation; it felt like a tactical mission into enemy territory. My brain, which used to prioritize packing the right swimsuit and a pair of versatile sandals, underwent a jarring shift. The internal dialogue flipped from "What should I wear?" to a frantic, "How will I stay alive if the power goes out, the pharmacy is closed, and I lose my insulin in a freak seagull accident?"

If you’ve recently been diagnosed with diabetes, you know exactly what that "mini-panic" feels like. It’s the realization that your "safe zone"—that kitchen cabinet where your supplies live and the pharmacy that knows your name—is about to be left behind. It’s a daunting threshold to cross, but as I learned that weekend, it’s one of the most important steps toward reclaiming your life.

The Anatomy of the 'What If' Suitcase

When Friday morning rolled around, my car’s trunk told a story of deep-seated psychological warfare. I was going away for exactly two nights. Yet, I was lugging a suitcase that looked like I was preparing for a six-month expedition to the Antarctic.

The "What If" suitcase is a phenomenon many of us experience on our first trip out. It’s not just about clothes; it’s a physical manifestation of our anxiety. Every time I thought about a potential scenario, I added five pounds to my luggage.

• What if I drop my insulin vial on the bathroom tile? Pack two spares.
• What if my CGM sensor fails? Pack three.
• What if the hotel fridge freezes my insulin? Pack a specialized cooling case.
• What if there’s a localized sugar shortage in the entire Pacific Northwest? Pack enough glucose tabs to fuel a marathon.

Looking at that massive bag, I realized I was treating a weekend trip like a month-long survivalist retreat. I wasn't just packing supplies; I was packing a security blanket. I was trying to control a variable—my health—that felt wildly unpredictable. The size of my bag was directly proportional to my fear of the unknown.

Supplies for a Small Army: What Was Inside

If a TSA agent had opened my bag, they would have assumed I was running a mobile clinic. Here is a breakdown of the "essentials" I deemed necessary for 48 hours:

The Insulin Overload

I didn't just bring my current pens. I brought three times the amount of insulin I could possibly use in a week, let alone two days. I had my long-acting basal insulin and my rapid-acting bolus insulin, plus back-up vials in case the pens malfunctioned. I even brought extra syringes just in case the pen needles—of which I had fifty—somehow all bent at once.

Testing Frenzy

My Continuous Glucose Monitor (CGM) is my best friend, but in my "What If" mind, technology was bound to fail the moment I saw the ocean. I packed my primary blood glucose meter, a backup meter, and enough test strips to check my blood sugar every fifteen minutes for the duration of the trip. I even brought a third, "emergency" meter that I hadn't used in months, just because it was small and fit in the corner of the bag.

The 'Low' Drawer

My suitcase was roughly 40% sugar. I had rolls of glucose tablets in every pocket. I had four juice boxes wrapped in plastic bags (to prevent "the great sticky explosion of 2024"). I had fruit snacks, honey packets stolen from a coffee shop, and a jar of peanut butter. I was so terrified of a "low" that I had enough carbohydrates to feed a small army of toddlers.

Tech and Backups

Beyond the insulin and testing supplies, I had extra CGM sensors, extra infusion sets (even though I wasn't on a pump yet, I was "considering it" and wanted to be prepared), charging cables for my phone, a power bank the size of a brick, and spare batteries for the backup meters.

The Reality Check: What Actually Happened on the Road

The drive down was punctuated by my CGM alarm every time we hit a bump, or so it felt. But once we arrived, the "monsters under the bed" started to disappear.

The first big hurdle was the restaurant meal. I had spent months meticulously weighing my food at home. Now, I was staring at a menu of clam chowder and fish tacos. I felt a surge of anxiety—how do I bolus for "mystery" carbs? I chose to be brave. I did my best guess on the carb count, took my insulin at the table (discreetly, though I realized no one was actually looking), and waited.

The world didn't end. My blood sugar rose, then it came back down.

I also had to navigate the "public" aspect of diabetes. Carrying a cooler bag into a nice restaurant felt like carrying a neon sign that said "I AM DIFFERENT." But as I sat there, watching the sunset over the waves, I realized that my body didn't forget how to process insulin just because I crossed a state line. The physiology remained the same. The "safe zone" wasn't my kitchen; it was the knowledge I carried in my head and the tools I had in my bag.

The 'What I Actually Used' vs. 'What I Carried' Ratio

When I got home Sunday night and began the ritual of unpacking, I was hit with a humbling reality.

I had used exactly:

• The insulin pens I already had in my pocket.
• Four test strips (just to double-check the CGM once).
• One roll of glucose tabs after a long walk on the beach.
• Zero backup meters.
• Zero backup sensors.
• Zero juice boxes.

About 90% of my "What If" suitcase remained untouched. I felt a little silly at first, looking at the mountain of supplies I’d lugged across the state. But then, I realized something important: I wasn't mad at myself for overpacking.

That overstuffed suitcase was a necessary step for my mental health. It provided the "permission" I needed to leave the house. It was a physical manifestation of my safety net. If I hadn't brought the "small army" of supplies, I would have spent the entire weekend in a state of high-alert stress, which would have spiked my blood sugar anyway! Overpacking was the bridge that got me from "I can't do this" to "I just did this."

5 Essential Tips for Your First Post-Diagnosis Trip

If you’re staring at your own "What If" suitcase right now, don't worry. You’ll eventually find a balance. Here are five practical tips to help you pack smarter (and lighter) without sacrificing your peace of mind.

1. The 3x Rule

Calculate how much insulin, how many sensors, and how many testing supplies you would need for the duration of your trip. Then, triple it. Why triple? One for use, one for a backup, and one for the "unthinkable" (like losing a bag or a sensor being ripped off by a door frame). Tripling your supplies gives you a massive safety margin without requiring a U-Haul.

2. The Power of the 'Go-Bag'

Don't bury your essentials in your large suitcase. Create a small "Go-Bag" or "Day Kit" that stays with you at all times. This should contain your current insulin, your meter, and a fast-acting glucose source. Knowing your "life-saving" items are within arm's reach reduces the anxiety of being away from your hotel room.

3. Informing Your Travel Companions

You don't need to make a grand announcement, but a quick, "Hey, just so you know, I’ve got my diabetes gear with me. If I start acting shaky or confused, I might need a juice box," goes a long way. It takes the pressure off you to "hide" it and ensures someone has your back if you hit a stubborn low.

4. Research Local Resources

Before you leave, spend five minutes on Google Maps. Find the nearest 24-hour pharmacy and the nearest hospital to your destination. You likely won't need them, but having that information saved in your phone acts as a "digital" security blanket, allowing you to leave the physical one (the extra suitcase) at home.

5. Pack for 'Lows' Smartly

Instead of heavy juice boxes, consider lightweight options like glucose gels, honey packets, or even specific candies that don't melt (like Smarties or Skittles). They take up a fraction of the space and do the job just as well.

Rediscovering the Joy of Adventure

The most important lesson I learned from my overpacked suitcase wasn't about insulin or carbs. It was about identity.

Receiving a diabetes diagnosis can make you feel like your world has shrunk. You start to see yourself as a "patient" first and a person second. You worry that the spontaneous, adventurous version of yourself has been replaced by someone who needs to be near a refrigerator and a sharps container at all times.

But that weekend at the coast proved me wrong. I realized that I am still a traveler; I just have a few more accessories now. Successfully navigating that first trip—even with my ridiculous suitcase—was incredibly empowering. It gave me the confidence to say "Yes" to the next invitation, and the one after that.

Don't let your diagnosis keep you grounded. Pack the extra bag, bring the three meters, and carry the mountain of glucose tabs if that’s what it takes to get you out the door. Eventually, you’ll realize you don't need the "What If" suitcase anymore. You just need your gear, your courage, and a destination.

What’s the one thing you’re most nervous about packing for your next trip? Let us know in the comments below—we’re all in this together!