Real gorgeous; real diabetes

When I was in my teens and twenties, I was, just as many women are, dismayed with the way I looked, and susceptible to the claims of beauty products that promised I could be thinner, more toned, more beautiful, smoother, more attractive, more <insert whichever part of me obviously needed improving>.

Of course, all of the things I was desperate to change and refine were measures of my worth, right? Because if I was thinner, more toned, more beautiful, smoother, more attractive, more <insert required improvement> that would make me a better person. Right? Of course.

I didn’t look like one of the supermodels (not just models, mind; these ones were super) that were everywhere I looked. At the time, I was spending all my energies being a flute player, but even the classical musical world wasn’t spared the attention to how women should look, with Jane Rutter suddenly appearing wrapped in nothing more than a bedsheet and a sultry look (impressive with a flute shoved against her bottom lip, while playing Debussy). ‘Great’, I thought. ‘Now not only do I have to look like a fucking model. I have to do it while playing flute. Naked.’

The feelings of inadequacy were strong and I know I spent far too much time desperately wishing I looked different. I probably spent too much money on products that promised to make that happen. And delivered nothing.

When I was twenty-one, someone gave me a copy of Kaz Cooke’s fabulous book Real Gorgeous. I can’t remember who it was, but suspect it was my mother. I read it in one sitting. I already knew of Kaz Cooke (from her brilliant ‘Keep Yourself Nice’ column in the weekend papers), but this book was a revelation. She laid bare all the sneaky tips and tricks and lies the beauty industry used to expose our insecurities, feel as though we needed to be different and, subsequently, buy their products. Of course, I already knew what she was saying. There was nothing in there that, when I had a moment of rational thinking, I didn’t already understand. But to have it set out so practically and emphatically was just what I needed to get over the idea that I needed to look and be different to how I was.

I actually saw Kaz at Marios over the weekend and stopped her she walked past me. I introduced myself and the kid (who was so horrified and embarrassed that she looked as though she wished the ground would swallow her up), and thanked her for all her books, but especially Real Gorgeous. ‘It saved me, in some ways.’ I told her.

And it did. It stopped the self-doubt. And it made me confident enough to admit to myself that I was more than enough. Just the way I was. And that nothing about the way I looked needed improving. (Thankfully, this was before I tried any naked flute playing. At least, any in public…)

As it turns out, I struggled with the same insecurities and feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt when it came to being diagnosed with diabetes. I think it is only in recent years that I have come to understand that the constant second guessing about being good enough achieves nothing other than increasing my anxieties and contributing to burn out.

With time, I came to apply the same cynical filters to diabetes product advertising as I now had permanently in place when looking at health and beauty advertising. In the same way that not every woman looks like Cindy Crawford, not every blood glucose check will be 4.8mmol/l.

‘Real Gorgeous’ wisdom on the left. Real diabetes on the right.

One of the most damaging things that we can do is compare ourselves to others. Because when we do, we often fall short. Our A1c may be higher, our time in range lower, our technology not as advanced, our healthcare professionals not the ones on the TV or on conference stages.

Being around and sharing with others living with diabetes is wonderful (here are twenty reasons why) but it can be damaging if the only thing you are doing is using them as a yardstick for your own diabetes.

It took me many years to stop feeling that I needed to ‘keep up’ with my diabetes peers, or that my diabetes needed to look like someone else’s diabetes. While I may try to align myself with others who have similar ideas about diabetes, I do it on my own terms, using and doing the things that work best for me.

The way I have adopted DIYAPS is not the same as many others. I call it ‘Loop Lite’, using just the absolute basics, without any of the add-ons. I don’t produce pages of graphs to analyse, because that’s not what I need. But what I do is perfect for me.

The same goes for finding the way to an eating plan that works for me. While learning about the details of LCHF, I refused to go ‘all in’ as many seem to. I adapted it for the way I live.

The way I do diabetes and the way my diabetes behaves is enough. It is right for me. It is my Real Diabetes.

Today, I have a brand new copy of Real Gorgeous on my desk, all wrapped up. It’s a gift for the kidlet who is already a huge Kaz Cooke fan (she has had Girls Stuff on her shelf for a few years now). She already has a very healthy filter when it comes to beauty advertising, but I know that it is possible that she will be susceptible to the same feelings of self-doubt that I was.

I want her to know she is enough. So very much more than enough. We all are.