My vision feels as if it is heading into a tunnel. The only thing I can see clearly is the glowing outline of the Apple Pay reader beaming off the register. Pinging sounds come from all directions, kids screaming as they swipe their cards into arcade machines. I grasped onto the strobe lights from each game as my only form of staying attached to reality. I fall to the floor—feeling of losing control; everything has gone black. A week later, I pricked myself with needles to bleed. I applied pressure, and the needle broke my skin and the blood seeped from my body. My blood filled the small plastic strip. I wiped my finger beep, and the test was complete. I prepare myself to stab another needle into my body; this one is bigger and thicker. The needle goes in quickly; I push the back of the syringe, count to ten, and then pull it out. Days prior, I was chugging 20 water bottles daily and still felt thirsty. I went to the bathroom three times an hour—a ring rang from my phone. My best friend texted me to get on the Xbox; I hadn't spoken to them in days. I got the courage to text back, "I have diabetes." Their response was, "Okay, get on the game." I still had my friends, and they didn't care that I was different. I was eleven. When Freshman year started, I hid the most significant part of my life. "You're diabetic? So you can't have sugar?" This was the line I had heard hundreds of times throughout my life, and I would do anything not to listen to it again. Still, I played Varsity Lacrosse, Club Lacrosse, and became an Eagle Scout. The never-answered question of "Why me?" rings throughout my head. When I see the constant reminders on my body, scars from needles, medical devices, and frustration. You feel isolated when no one around you has gone through your struggles. My parents do everything to help me. However, knowing that no one will know what it is truly like to live with diabetes kept making me wonder why life was unfair. Years later, at Penn Station, my girlfriend and I headed to the subway, the first time I was in New York. With a nervous smile, pretending like I knew what I was doing, we stepped onto the subway. Finding the first seat I could, I sat down and the first person I noticed was a woman in a wheelchair. I saw on her arm an omnipod, a diabetic device. I began a conversation, and she told me her story. In her words, she was “past her expiration date,” now she socializes playing Pokemon Go in New York. On a hot summer day, I was working as a lifeguard. The water was still, and the loudest noise was the brustling of the trees above me. First, I noticed the sky. It was beautiful, one of those skies where the clouds are scattered just right. Then, my eyes drifted down to the line of trees against the fence, and I felt like I could see clearer that day. Finally, I noticed myself, realizing life is beautiful. Diabetes made me realize everyone's struggles are unique and different, but everyone has them. It allowed me to appreciate the things in life that seem perfect, the little moments, like looking at the nature surrounding me. I gained an understanding of how lucky I am to be me. I am going to study Physical Therapy to help others and know mindset is very powerful.