How I Found Peace When Everything Suddenly Felt Out of My Control

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche

I was twenty-five weeks pregnant when I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Still working, still showing up, still dreaming of a gentle homebirth.

We had an event at work that day, and I had to walk to it. I remember feeling so out of breath that I had to stop every few steps. Walking upstairs became impossible without pausing. Something wasn’t right.

I’d also noticed I was losing weight, especially in my face. My cheeks had sunken in. Not exactly the glowing pregnancy look I’d envisioned. More “heroin chic” than “earth goddess.”

Until that point, I’d had what many would call a healthy pregnancy. I was eating well, walking, and reading all the Ina May books, picturing the beautiful, candlelit birth I was planning at home.

That dream came crashing down the day my husband looked at me and said, “You need to go to the doctor’s. You look like death.”

The Moment Everything Changed

I thought it was something minor—maybe my lungs, a chest infection? I popped into the clinic with a sample pot of urine (standard pregnancy accessory in the UK), and after the doctor tested it, everything happened fast.

She left the room, brought in a more senior doctor, and asked me to lie down on the exam table.

Ten minutes later, I was in an ambulance, sirens on, racing to the hospital.

I remember being more concerned about my parked car and the ticket I was going to get than what was happening to me.

In A&E, they started saying the word “diabetes.”

I had no idea what that even meant.

A doctor there finally told me I was hours away from slipping into a coma. My blood sugar was dangerously high.

It wasn’t gestational. It was a full-blown autoimmune condition. And it was terrifying.

I spent the next seven days in the hospital learning to inject insulin, scan my blood sugar, count every gram of carbohydrate, and try not to cry while hearing that my pregnancy was now “high risk.”

When I told one midwife that I still wanted a homebirth, she laughed in my face.

I cried for two weeks straight. Every night when the lights would go out, I was there bawling my eyes out, mourning the life I once had.

The Weight of Numbers

Pregnancy is often painted as this beautiful, glowing experience. But with type 1 diabetes, it becomes data-driven.

Everything was measured. Fasting sugars. Post-meal targets. Daily insulin. Growth scans. HbA1c. Carb counts. Basal rates. Corrections—extra insulin to fix everything number that went wrong.

I was terrified of doing something wrong. Eating too much. Not moving enough. Spiking after a bowl of oats.

It felt like my body had become a science project for others to monitor. Each appointment felt like an exam I was failing. I felt betrayed by my own body, and worse, as if I was betraying my baby.

Despite doing everything I could, the pressure to get it all “perfect” was relentless.

The Turning Point: Surrender, Not Control

One afternoon after a tough appointment, I sat in my car and cried. I’d just been told the obstetrician would be deciding when they would deliver my baby.

Not if. Not how. When.

I remember whispering, “This is my body. This is my baby.”

That was the shift.

I realized I didn’t want to fight anymore, not with doctors, or numbers, or even myself.

I wanted to surrender. Not passively. But consciously. Intentionally.

I hired private midwives who trusted my body. I doubled down on preparation. I learned to manage my blood sugars calmly. I started practicing hypnobirthing, something I’d once dismissed as “too woo-woo,” and it brought me home to myself.

I began listening to relaxation tracks. I visualized my baby surrounded by love and safety. I whispered affirmations I didn’t believe at first:

“I am doing enough.”
“My baby and I are working together.”
“I can handle this moment.”

Eventually, I believed them.

Calm in the Chaos

Surrender didn’t mean giving up. It meant tuning in.

I still counted carbs. Still injected insulin. But I stopped obsessing. I gave myself permission to rest. To feel joy. To actually enjoy parts of my pregnancy again.

I also realized something heartbreaking: there was no one supporting mums like me.

Not the endocrinologists. Not the obstetricians. Not even the specialist diabetes nurses. They knew the data, but they didn’t know the life.

They didn’t know what it was to grow a baby while chasing perfect blood sugars. No lived experience. Just leaflets.

I realized I was becoming the expert of my own experience. I was learning how to tame a wild stallion, and that stallion was my blood sugar.

What I Learned About Strength

We think of strength as grit. Powering through. Staying in control.

But type 1 taught me a different kind of strength, one that’s quieter. Softer. Still fierce. One that involved acceptance and surrender.

At first, I was angry. But as I learned to live with this new way of being, I began to find joy in it. Testing new foods. Watching trends. Experimenting with walks and insulin and “sugar squats” (quick sets of squats I’d do during a blood sugar high to help bring it down naturally.)

I learned that sometimes, strength means:

Eating the thing you know will spike your sugars because your body is begging for it and then walking it off without shame.
Letting go of the birth you planned and embracing the one that’s unfolding.
Doubling down on your dream, even when medics dismiss it.
And sometimes, letting go of that dream entirely and finding power in the birth you never expected.

Both My Babies, Both My Births

With my daughter, I held on to my homebirth plan. I went in for daily checks. I resisted induction. My midwives were ready. My husband filled the pool. Labor started. It was beautiful.

Until it wasn’t.

After many hours of pushing, we transferred to the hospital. I gave birth on my back, legs in stirrups, the opposite of what I imagined.

But I still felt powerful. Because I chose it. Because I stayed connected to myself.

With my second baby, he came early. Too early for our midwives to attend at home. At thirty-six weeks, I walked into the hospital and roared my son into the world.

He was healthy. I was healthy.

And I was strong, just not in the way I originally thought I needed to be.

A Message for Anyone Facing the Unexpected

This isn’t just about pregnancy. It’s about life taking a turn you didn’t choose.

A diagnosis. A shift. A loss. A plan to follow that’s no longer yours.

Here’s what I’ve learned, and what I hope you take away from this:

You have not failed.

You are adapting in real time, and that is a form of brilliance.

There is no “right” way to get through a hard season. It’s more about finding your way, day to day, and trusting it’s enough, even when it’s messy.

Let go of the guilt. Let go of perfection. Find pockets of stillness. Speak kindly to yourself.

And remember it’s still possible to enjoy parts of your life, even when it looks nothing like you imagined.

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.