Por amor de comida/ For the love of food

Growing up first generation, my parents taught me the importance of valuing food and its security since they both had rough childhoods in Mexico. I was a relatively non-picky eater and when going places to see family or friends I knew damn well to finish everything on my plate as a sign of respect and gratitude. In the Hispanic culture, you also know to offer something or anything as small as a glass of water to guests out of hospitality, because even if you don’t have much, manners and kindness go a long way.

My maternal grandmother was our next-door neighbor and my favorite things growing up would be her gorditas and tamales that she’d make year-round. Her hot chocolate and champurrado during the holidays still fill my memories with warmth and love. As a person, she wasn’t the most affectionate, but her actions and cooking would make me feel loved and cherished long after she passed. Food is essential to everyone’s well-being yet something about those little gestures made the world’s difference to me as a kid and made me appreciate the eating experience as an adult even more.

I spent my summers in Monterrey with my dad’s side of the family before my diagnosis for months on end since I was the only natural born citizen of my siblings with that privilege. My mom would phone my grandmother to make sure enough money was sent over to buy me all the milk, cereals, and snacks that I would possibly need. I would house hop between my aunt’s and uncle’s homes during that time and knew that I would be well fed or being a visitor they’d also take requests to make me feel as much at home as possible, which a kid typically only dreams of. With such a large family, parties were normal and often during my stays, and they were centered around food, drinks, and music, so think fajitas and taquitos for days!

Houston luckily has a good amount of diversity with its people and cuisine, and my neighborhood specifically reflected that by being predominantly Hispanic. I grew up very much in that bubble of thinking that having roosters and hens or guard dogs in your backyard was the norm. At home, we were usually fed home-cooked meals and rarely we’d get fast-food because if there were rice and beans or tortillas at the house there was a meal waiting for us. My mom would never deny us anything sweets/ dessert wise because she loved to “treat” us when possible in any way she could, though constantly in a conscientious way. Being the chubby sibling I did have a strenuous relationship to food seeing that both my siblings were on the lean to normal side, and my “gorda de harina” (flour tortilla) nickname wasn’t always helpful.

My DKA story is pretty standard to most with no previous diabetes education in their lives. I had all the symptoms and didn’t get bloodwork or urine samples until my 3rd clinic visit. I lost weight at every doctor’s visit and rather than raising concern, I was being praised by staff that knew nothing about me for shrinking myself at 11 years old. Once diagnosed in the ER and fully recovered, the diabetes educators informed my mom of the different sugars in all foods and she did feel overwhelmed. The handbook was fortunately bilingual with staple pieces she was used to making, which later brought me back to a healthy weight.

There was a lot of trial and error that would occur from the lack of portioning my meals because my mom’s recipes rarely required any measuring cups or tools. My mom did supplement more veggies into our diet, but other than that not much changed and I recognized the importance good food had on my health. I ate all the things I wanted with my mom’s support, recognizing that her foods would always be dear to me and those traditions were worth keeping, from the Pozole and Albonidagas, to the handmade flour tortillas and huge tostadas de la Siberia - I would never trade them for anything in the world.

I knew not everyone would be willing to learn the complexity behind my illness and compare me to their elderly neighbor or grandparent so that’s why I avoided bringing attention to my diabetes for the most part. The major nuisances for me occured when people would comment on my plate at gatherings, seeing that type 2 diabetes is common in the Latino population they thought they knew best regarding my diet and steering clear from tortillas and rice was obviously the only alternative. Calling my diabetes “azúcar” irked me some, too because the narrative was always, “you shouldn’t have any sugar or carbs since your body makes too much already”. To them I merely did my best to educate the importance of insulin as my treatment and as long as I took my medicine and watched my glucose it would be fine, food was never something I feared and they shouldn’t be concerned about it for my sake either. 

 I do nevertheless experience my burn out periods because life gets hard and sometimes your mentality makes a bigger impact than you think. What helped me most was accepting that I was entitled to grieve the life I had prior to diagnosis and not seeing myself as a burden for whatever reason. As I lived life on my own and did the things my childhood heart would have never imagined - I finally gained my confidence in wearing my CGM proudly and acknowledged that my disease is a part of my identity just like my upbringing and love of food. It was being at home in my own body- no matter its size, in taking care of myself and allowing myself yummy pleasures with moderation and responsibility. It’s in eating the things I love like carb heavy tamales, and not feeling guilty about it because if they bring me joy and I’m watching my health simultaneously what harm can come from it? Overall, it’s really just a balancing act of knowing what works for you, what resonates with your life as a person foremost and how diabetes is a piece of that life you want to live. So here’s to living unapologetically and knowing we are strong, fierce and human. We deserve all of the health and happiness the world has to offer, and I wish everyone a “panza llena; corazón contento” (full tummy, happy heart).