Food, Friends & Growing Up

29 August 2025 7 min read #Sugarcoated

Food isn’t simple for me. Type 1 diabetes and celiac disease mean every meal comes with calculations and limits. When I catch up with friends, I often feel like I’ve already done the hard part just by turning up. They can talk about the best restaurants and new dishes without thinking twice, while I’m quietly navigating rules and risks they don’t even know exist.

But the deeper question for me is not just how do I eat? It’s how do I grow into adulthood with this?

I’ve seen men who build their identity around being invincible — confident, untouchable — until reality cracks the façade. That kind of manhood feels powerful in the moment but proves fragile when tested. I’ve seen others who skate through life with a happy-go-lucky posture, refusing to think about the future. It looks carefree, but it often masks avoidance.

I don’t have the luxury of either. My health conditions force me to live with awareness. I can see challenges clearly — my own today, and the ones we all face in the future. That can feel heavy, but it can also be a strange kind of training. I can’t hide from the reality that bodies break down, control is limited, and life is fragile.

So what does Scripture tell me to do with that?

Paul reminds me that God’s strength is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9–10).
The Psalms show me that honesty about suffering is not faithlessness but worship (Psalm 13; Psalm 42).
Proverbs calls me to prudence — to see danger and prepare (Proverbs 22:3).
Ecclesiastes humbles me that even the wisest can’t master tomorrow (Ecclesiastes 3:11; 8:7).
Jesus calls me to measure my life not by strength or ease, but by sacrificial love (Ephesians 5:25).

That’s the shape of manhood I want: not invincibility, not ignorance, but sober, hopeful realism. Eyes open to the weight, heart anchored in Christ, hands free to serve.

But to live that way, I have to keep asking myself some harder questions:

Am I showing up for people out of love, or just surviving the moment?
When I share about my struggles, am I being honest in a way that invites understanding — or am I making my struggle the headline?
Am I preparing wisely for the future, or am I trying to control what only God can?
Do I leave these moments bitter about what I missed, or thankful for the people in front of me?
Most of all, am I measuring my manhood by strength and ease, or by sacrificial love?

And here’s where it touches my real life: sometimes even a simple question like “What did you get up to this week?” feels thorny. Because maybe that week was filled with sleepless nights, unexpected test results, and nothing but work in between. How do I answer that without dumping the weight, but without lying either?

I think the answer lies in a few principles worth carrying:

Take It to the Lord First
“Cast all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7). Before I spill my struggles in detail to others, I need to first bring them in detail to God. Prayer is the one place I can be completely raw and dependent without fear of wearing anyone down. People can encourage me, but only God can carry the full weight.
Be Real, But Proportionate
With close friends, it’s ok to say, “Honestly, it’s been a rough week — sleep’s been bad, health stuff’s flaring.” That’s enough to be truthful without handing them the full diagnostic report unless they lean in.
Let Others Carry a Corner of the Burden
Galatians 6:2 calls me to let others bear a part of the load. I don’t have to hand over the whole weight, but I also shouldn’t deny close friends the chance to carry even a corner.
Look for the Non-Medical Good
Even in weeks dominated by health or work, I can look for one non-medical detail to share — a conversation, a thought, a moment of rest. That keeps me from being reduced to my conditions in their eyes and in my own.
Anchor in Hope, Not Pity
I can be honest about the struggle, but I need to frame it as part of my journey with God, not the whole story. That way my friends see both the reality and the hope.

And then there are the moments I can’t avoid: a sudden low blood sugar, or a stubborn high that colors everything. In those moments it’s easy to feel like the condition has taken over. But the principle is the same:

I need to do what’s required without apology (treat the low, adjust the insulin). That’s wisdom, not weakness.
I can acknowledge it briefly, but I don’t need to let it define the room. “Blood sugar’s off, give me a second.”
And then I need to return to presence quickly. Once I’ve acted, I can shift my focus back to the people in front of me. I don’t need to let diabetes steal more of the moment than it has to.

Because my friends don’t need me to be invincible. They just need me to be present. And I don’t need to hide my reality — I just need to make sure it doesn’t become the headline of every encounter.

James puts it this way: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance. Let endurance have its full effect, that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing” (James 1:2–4).

But here’s the truth: it doesn’t feel like joy. It feels like envy when I see others living pain-free. It feels unfair when what exhausts me doesn’t even register for them. Saying “others have struggles too” doesn’t lighten the load, and building a hard exterior doesn’t grow love or kinship. So how can this possibly turn into joy?

For me, the answer isn’t to bottle it up, compare it away, or toughen myself into numbness. The answer is to see where God meets me in the trial.

Joy comes from who meets me in it: Christ Himself, whose power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:10).
Joy comes from what it produces: endurance, and through endurance, maturity (James 1:2–4).
Joy comes from how it frees me: stripping away illusions of invincibility and denial, and centering me on what actually lasts (Ecclesiastes 3:11; 8:7).
Joy comes from where it ends: an eternal weight of glory far beyond comparison (2 Corinthians 4:17).

For me, joy doesn’t mean pretending this is easy. Joy means trusting that God is doing something deeper through what is hard. It means praying my pain honestly, then releasing it to Him. It means practicing gratitude alongside lament, choosing love even when I want to withdraw, and anchoring myself in the long view — that today’s struggles are shaping tomorrow’s maturity.

Maybe that’s what adulthood looks like for me: not escaping pain, not envying others, but letting endurance have its full effect. Weakness can remain weakness, but in Christ it becomes the very place where joy is born, where hope is anchored, and where love can still flow out of me to the people in front of me.