Almost at the Limit

Emmanuel Moreno Lopez, Mexico

This work is born from a deeply personal place: my father and my grandparents lived with diabetes. Growing up watching how they dealt with those numbers every day, with that silent stress, left a mark on me. Their experiences became both an inspiration and a reminder that the battle is fought not only in the body but also in the mind.

“Almost at the Limit” seeks to visually represent the constant anxiety many people with diabetes feel when monitoring their glucose levels. The composition uses overlapping faces and hands to convey confusion, mental pressure, and the feeling of being trapped in multiple thoughts at once. This fragmentation reflects how the mind divides itself among fear, worry, frustration, and self-control.

The dramatic use of red and blue symbolizes two opposing forces: red as alert, stress, and urgency, while blue suggests calm, control, and clinical detachment. These opposing energies collide within the patient, representing the inner conflict that arises even before seeing the result.

At the center, the glucometer displays a reading of 127 — a number technically within the normal range, yet very close to the threshold. That closeness creates a real and persistent anxiety: the fear of being just about to go wrong. For many people with diabetes, every measurement can trigger thoughts of guilt, frustration, or fear of losing control. The device thus becomes an emotional symbol, not merely a medical one.

The multiple hands emphasize the repetitive, almost compulsive action of testing — a necessary routine, but one that drains the mind. The fragmented face represents the patient’s emotional identity: outwardly composed, but inwardly divided by worry.

With this piece, I aim to express that anxiety in people with diabetes doesn’t always come from bad results, but from the constant possibility of crossing that line. Living “almost at the limit” is a mental state — a daily reminder that even the slightest variation can bring serious consequences. This work invites empathy, understanding, and a visualization of that invisible pressure.

The Quiet Courage

Kanjaree Suppawittaya, Thailand

Living with Type 1 Diabetes comes with an invisible weight — as a T1D patient for over ten years, I have come to the realization that perfect control every day is nearly impossible. Being constantly aware of keeping our blood sugar level in check, injecting the right doses of different types of insulin, managing high and lows, and making hundreds of other diabetes-related decisions — on top of all the normal decisions everyone makes daily — create a feeling of “never being off duty” and an anxiety that comes from within.

While I have gained immense support from my family, peers, and healthcare team, there are still moments when I faced social situations and the pressure of eyes and ears that do not understand. I am grateful to be able to share my T1D story, but the need to constantly explaining myself to everyone who sees my conditions — hoping deeply that they will understand, and sometimes letting it pass for those who do not — is overwhelming. Others’ misconceptions and hurtful predictions about my future are often painful and sometimes make me feel uncertain despite having a lot of faith and confidence in myself and my abilities.

Ultimately, living with T1D is not just about managing numbers — it is about finding balance, resilience, and acceptance. For me, my first step was embracing all of who I am and saying to myself, “Yes, I have diabetes, and I will live well with it.” And that is exactly what I have done up until now. Being a patient myself and seeing what many may do not shaped me into a hardworking and empathetic third-year medical student today. I still carry some fears, but I know the strength within me and the support of our worldwide diabetes community will help me overcome anything. I hope to live a life well-lived, for the little 10-year-old me and for all of you, my dearly loved friends.

So little, so big

Irene Cotroneo, Italy

Every time I look at my insulin pump cart, I think about the fact that it is an incredibly small element that keeps me alive. So small and fragile but so big and necessary. Big because it is my first need and it is the second main character of my life, after myself. Sometimes I feel like there is no way out and I panic. Sometimes diabetes is just an ordinary task. I often struggle, but I keep on going. It is how it is.

Invisible Weight

Belma Tahto, Bosnia and Herzegovina

My story of diabetes.

As a pharmacist, I meet people living with diabetes every day. Every conversation, every question, fear, or hope they share leaves a mark on me.

Over time, I learned that diabetes is not only a physical condition, but also an emotional journey, one that demands courage, patience, and resilience. As a self-taught painter, I try to turn these emotions into colors. This is how my art was actually born. It’s a visual expression of diabetes and anxiety, a blend of darkness and light, struggle and hope. It reflects the unseen side of diabetes, the anxiety, the invisible weight of uncertainty, but also the light of hope that never fades.

So, whether through my work as a pharmacist or through colors and brushstrokes, my mission remains the same: to help, to understand, and to offer support.

Through this work, created for the “This is Diabetes” campaign, I wish to show that empathy and understanding can be expressed not only through medicine but also through art.

The Voices Within

Nawelles La Rosa, Italy

“The Voices Within” was born from silently listening to those who live with diabetes every day. Behind every act of control lies a universe of thoughts, anxiety, and fragile balance. It is a tribute to those who, in silence, face their battle — transforming pain into courage and awareness.

This artwork reflects the inner dialogue of those living with diabetes, a condition that extends beyond the body and reaches into the mind. The voices emerging around the face symbolise the constant anxiety of control, the fear of sudden changes, and the fatigue that comes from always having to stay alert.
In the calm, lucid face at the centre, we see the quiet strength of those who choose, day after day, to face their condition with awareness and dignity.The contrast between darkness and light expresses the inner path between emotional chaos and the search for balance.

It is an invitation to look beyond the illness — to recognise the invisible yet profound struggle that many endure, and to transform fear into resilience.

Rebirth from Darkness

Diego Berzagui, Brasil

“Rebirth from Darkness” portrays the journey of those who live with diabetes, the initial darkness, the fear and pain reflected in the eyes, but also the explosion of colour that bursts from the mind when one discovers it is possible to live fully. The heart on the chest symbolises love that endures, even in the face of limitation, while the organic shapes emerging from the head represent hope, discipline, and the blossoming of a new life.

The artwork reminds us that diabetes is not an ending, but an invitation to reinvent oneself, to be nourished by awareness, and to be reborn in colour, balance, and vitality.

Bad hair day lady

Linda Chan, Bad hair day lady

Diabetic for 33 years, I am losing my sight. I retired due to depression and poor health at 55. I took art classes and now make marks and see images within them. Having a bad hair day is when things aren't going well, feeling that the hair or in this case, the diabetes, is the only thing that defines you due to the constant need to manage this condition and the constant effort, awareness and sadness that can overwhelm, no matter how hard you try.

Diabetes has caused me sight loss, heart issues, kidney disease and neuropathy as I have needed insulin in all that time....I now have a constant monitor and this is changing my life.

Breathing down my neck

Gemma Olivieri, Italy

Living with type 1 diabetes means carrying a constant weight — a presence always behind me, breathing down my neck. It’s the anxiety of every meal, every number, every night. It never really leaves.

I’ve been living with it since 2019 and I still hate it most of the time. It feels invasive, heavy — something that steals my freedom and fills every moment with worry. It drives me mad sometimes, this constant breath reminding me that I’m never completely free.

But I know I can’t go back. The only way forward is to keep walking, with it right behind me. Not as an enemy, but as a stubborn travel companion — one I’m slowly learning to live with, one breath, one step at a time.

Still, I Grow (With Insulin)

Lynda Browne-Bristov, Barbados

Diabetes has taught me to live alongside a low hum of anxiety, the numbers, the needles, the what-ifs, the highs and the lows. In this self-portrait, I reach with one hand and steady with the other, holding a staff of sugar cane that blossoms into a flower. The bloom is growth, softness and hope; the staff is resolved. An insulin pen rests at my hip, a constant reminder of my plight, but also a companion that subdues fear so I can keep moving forward with positivity.

The diabetes parent

Isabelle Isa Kristin Steineck, Sweden

Imagine having to give your child a medication every single day—knowing that too much of it could be dangerous, and too little could be life-threatening. This is the daily reality for parents of children living with type 1 diabetes.

Managing insulin is a complex and relentless task. Behind every dose is careful calculation, constant monitoring, and deep concern. And while carrying this medical responsibility, these parents are also simply trying to be ordinary moms and dads.

As a doctor, I meet many of these parents in my work. That’s why I wanted to create this drawing—to honor what they do. I also live with type 1 diabetes myself, and when I was a child, it was my own parents who shouldered that enormous burden for me.

Octopodiabetes

Ayse Simge Salman, Italy

This artwork portrays an octopus with type 1 diabetes, serving as a vivid metaphor for the multitasking nature of living with the condition. Each of the octopodiabetes's eight arms holds a diabetic device, symbolizing the constant balancing act and mental load that come with managing type 1 diabetes. Octopodiabetes wears a blue hat and floats in a space-like background. The blue hat not only represents T1DM awareness but also references the ''Blue Hat'' from the Six Thinking Hats Teaching Technique, a symbol of organization, reflection, and control over the thinking process.

I believe that type 1 diabetes has taught me a lot since my childhood. Today, as a teacher, I feel like I must teach my students and other people what type 1 diabetes is, and what it is not, to raise awareness, especially when they ask about my diabetic devices. Through this artwork, I want to express how people with type 1 diabetes navigate anxiety and complexity with resilience, adaptability and mindful awareness.

'One morning, when I wake up from my troubled dreams, I found myself transformed in a space into a versatile octopus.'' (A rephrased reference to Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis*)