Ollie’s Story: Type 1, COVID and sugar-craving dreams

The year I was diagnosed was also the first time I lived independently– cooking questionable meals, going out (a little too much), sleeping in (definitely too much), and feeling genuinely free. Then, in mid-October 2020, I started feeling rough and went to a testing centre where I tested positive for COVID-19.

Knowing what I know now, I look back and wonder - was that the moment it all began? Emerging research says maybe. I’ve read studies on how the pandemic may have influenced rising rates of type 1 diabetes in young people. Diagnoses seemed to spike during that time, though the reasons still aren’t fully understood. Still, reading those studies helped - it reminded me that I wasn’t alone in what I was experiencing.

Shortly after my COVID experience, I felt the horrific symptoms of what I later learned was diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA). I was lying in my university room, dizzy, disoriented, and vomiting repeatedly over the course of three days. I blamed 'freshers' flu' – even though socialising was so limited at the time. I had no idea that my body was shutting down. 

My mum was very worried about me when we spoke on the phone, so I took the train home to Dorset in mid-December. She took one look at me and was shocked – I’d lost a lot of weight, my skin was grey, and my eyes had dark circles hanging under them. In the days that followed, staying at home, I could not stop thinking about consuming sugary drinks. I even dreamt of them. I didn’t know it then, but that overwhelming urge was my body screaming for insulin so it could process all the excess sugar in my body.

On Christmas Eve, I finally listened to my mum's concerns and saw a GP. My blood sugar was 40 mmol/L. I was told at this point that any reading over 11 was in the diabetes range, so a level of 40 was potentially really dangerous. When the doctor told me I had an emergency hospital appointment, I rang my sister. She seemed very worried, more worried than I was, because I didn’t yet understand what I was facing.

A few hours later, at the hospital, they broke the news: type 1 diabetes. I was told I was about a week away from falling into a diabetic coma.

"Time stood still as they talked about insulin, hypoglycaemia, and hyperglycaemia, none of which I really understood yet."

I began to grapple with the reality that I’d have to inject multiple times a day for the rest of my life, and that I’d need to quickly sharpen up my maths to calculate insulin-to-carb ratios.

All this information was news to me, and I had no prior understanding of the complexities of type 1 diabetes. I probably held some stigma about type 1 before I was diagnosed. I thought of diabetes as something that happened to older people or people who didn’t take care of themselves. Since my diagnosis, I’ve realised how common this misconception is, and I now make a conscious effort to correct it whenever I speak about my condition.

Like many others, I was confused about the difference between type 1 and type 2 diabetes. I felt ashamed of what I didn’t know and what I thought others might assume.

"It turns out I wasn’t alone in my thinking, and that many people living with diabetes have felt discriminated against or stigmatised, even sometimes in a healthcare setting."

After trying to learn everything about my condition the night before, Christmas Day arrived. It was a Christmas marked by anxiety, and I was constantly sneaking away to cry in private. Not because I had to inject insulin or because I was sick. But because I felt like my future had been stolen.

I’m grateful I had a great nurse who kept in contact with me during the day, but when she had to step away from work for personal reasons, I felt completely alone. I don’t blame her at all, or the NHS – we were going through a pandemic at the time. But the truth is, there was not enough structured mental health support. I think this is where improvements are paramount. The emotional impact of a diagnosis is huge.

Experiencing hypos

The emotional toll of my diagnosis was only exacerbated by the intense physical impact of diabetes. I still remember my first hypo, marked by dizziness, a pounding head, heightened senses, and an overwhelming urge to snap, often at my mum, which left me feeling guilty later.

Hypos are dreadful. They leave me shaky, weak, and anxious. I watch my blood sugar drop, then check obsessively, hoping it’ll rise, terrified it won’t. I’d read stories of people having seizures or blacking out during a hypo, which scared me far more than high blood sugar ever did. But hypers (high blood sugars) weren’t easy either. Though slower and less dramatic, they felt like wading through a fog, heavy, lingering, and exhausting, like the morning after a bad night out. Both extremes drained me in different ways, physically and mentally.

"Honestly, the months after my diagnosis were consumed by fear; it felt like everything I did carried some kind of risk."

I stayed at home, isolated by lockdown, and this new identity I didn’t understand yet. At the time, I was meant to be completing a primary education degree, but I couldn’t think beyond the next injection. I often spiralled by obsessively searching on the internet – this heightened anxiety is definitely something I feel is experienced by many people living with diabetes.

I was scared to fall asleep, worried about injecting the right amount of insulin and taking the correct amount of sugar whenever my levels crashed. Over time, the fear and exhaustion took a toll. Anxiety crept in, followed by depression. I was prescribed medication, but it barely touched the emotional weight I carried. Living with a condition like this every day was simply overwhelming.

Seeking support

"Looking back, I feel a little frustrated that I wasn’t signposted to support services like Diabetes UK for support, or online forums where other people living with diabetes shared their experiences. I would have found talking to others like me invaluable."

The NHS and much academic research rightly focus on stabilising blood sugars, training you in injections, diet and of course, amazing medical and technological interventions. But I felt I needed more support with grief, identity loss, and the fears that accompanied this condition.

I ended up returning to university, but I wasn’t okay. I partied excessively, ignored my blood sugars, and watched them climb into the 30s. I was self-destructing because I didn’t know how to live with this condition. I eventually dropped out and stopped trying.

And then I got my Freestyle Libre 2 sensor. It was life-changing. I could check my sugar levels with my phone. No more finger pricks, no more guessing. I started to sleep again, knowing the alarm would wake me if I was crashing overnight. It was the first sense of control I’d felt in months.

After a while, I then noticed the weight gain. From 9½ stone at diagnosis, to 12 stone five months later, I was heavier than I’d ever been. I felt like a stranger in my own body. I figured it must be the insulin, as I had read somewhere that it can cause weight gain. I became so self-conscious that I began to limit my insulin intake, for fear of gaining weight. Later, I learned that this behaviour, known as insulin omission, is worryingly common among young adults with type 1 diabetes, even though it’s extremely dangerous.

I soon realised that this was reckless and started researching the link between insulin and weight gain, something that had never been discussed during my diagnosis. I found forums and studies that validated what I was feeling. Slowly, that curiosity about the mind, identity, and coping began to grow. With that curiosity came an unexpected sense of clarity.

Having lived through a profound psychological upheaval, I became deeply fascinated by human behaviour, particularly how individuals respond to trauma. Type 1 diabetes, for all that it has taken from me, also gave me something I had previously lacked: direction.

My experience sparked an interest in the intersection between physical health and mental well-being, especially in the context of comorbid conditions. I went on to complete a first-class honours degree in criminology and am now pursuing a master’s degree in psychology at the University of Sussex.

My dream is to undertake a PhD focusing on the psychological impact of a type 1 diabetes diagnosis. I want to research the cohort I relate to most, many of whom navigated this life-altering diagnosis in isolation during the pandemic. There is so much to unpack – how diagnoses can affect identity and self-esteem, how individuals adjust to life with a chronic condition, struggle with weight issues, and deal with the internal and external stigmas they may face.

I know there will be many others like me, diagnosed during the pandemic, in lockdown, away from friends, with anxiety through the roof. I feel this is more than just an academic interest; it’s a deeply personal passion that I’m truly committed to.

Moving forward

I look back now and realise that everything I hated, the injections, the numbers, the grief, the weight gain, the isolation, led me here. To a place where I am working towards something I care about deeply. I’m committed to sharing this journey as widely as possible, so no one has to feel as lost as I once did.

This is something I want to spread awareness about, not just for myself, but for every newly diagnosed person sitting in a hospital room, hearing the words, “You have type 1 diabetes”, and wondering what comes next.

Reach out for support

If you are affected by the topics highlighted within this story or other stories on our website, you can access support from our helpline team on 0345 122 2399, Mon- Fri, 9am- 6pm, or email helpline@diabetes.org.uk.

You can join our free Support Forum – to connect with others affected by diabetes (Minimum age 13). For more information, see Forum FAQs. For those aged 11-25 living with type 1 diabetes, check out our youth programme Together Type 1 for a supportive community of people who understand what it’s really like juggling the ups and downs of life with diabetes.