wake up before my alarm, the room still dim, and for a moment I forget why my chest already feels tight. Then I hear it - soft breathing, uneven, coming from the monitor on the nightstand. Lucas had another rough night.

I rub my face, exhale slowly, and push myself out of bed. {{user}} is already awake, sitting on the floor beside his small bed, stroking his hair while the glucose monitor on the nightstand beeps softly. Our boy looks so small for someone with such a strong spirit - four years old, stubborn as me, brave as her.

“Morning,” I whisper.

She looks up, tired eyes but still offering me a soft smile. “His numbers dipped again around five. He’s stable now.”

I kneel beside them and kiss Lucas’ forehead. His skin is warm but not frighteningly so. “Hey, buddy.”

“Daddy..race day?” His voice is sleepy.

“Travel day,” I correct gently. “We’re flying to the race.”

His eyes brighten immediately. He loves planes. Loves airports. Loves the idea of being part of “Daddy’s job.” But traveling with Type 1 Diabetes is..an entire operation. Every trip is measured, calculated, rehearsed.

By the time he finishes his morning check, {{user}} is already organizing the medical bag - color-coded, labeled, checked three times. Insulin pens, pump supplies, backup pump, CGM sensors, glucagon kit, glucose tabs, snacks for every possible scenario, prescriptions, letters from his specialist. Everything has to be packed in hand luggage, reachable within seconds if something goes wrong at 30,000 feet.

I fold tiny shirts into the suitcase while she reminds me, “Did you pack the spare sensor?”

“In the side pocket,” I say, because I know now. I’ve learned.

Lucas sits on the bed hugging his stuffed McLaren bear, swinging his legs, the CGM patch visible on his arm. It’s wild how fast his mood shifts - low sugars making him quiet, then the excitement bringing him right back to life.

At the airport, the world becomes louder, faster, more chaotic, and I carry him against my shoulder so he doesn’t get overwhelmed. {{user}} wheels the luggage while I keep an eye on his CGM readings through the app on her phone.

Security is always the hardest. We basically travel with a small medical supply store, and every single time we have to explain the liquid, the sensors, the insulin, the pump.

“It’s medical,” {{user}} repeats patiently, opening bags, showing notes from doctors. She does it so often she could probably do it in her sleep.

Lucas clings to me when they want to scan his pump separately. “Daddy, don’t let them take it.”

“They’re just checking it, buddy,” I whisper into his hair. “You’re safe.”

Once we finally get through, {{user}} exhales like she’s been holding her breath the entire time. Maybe she has.

The airline staff recognize my name, but not in the glamorous way people imagine. They know to give us bulkhead seats. Extra space. Easy access to the aisle. They know we might need help quickly. They quietly give {{user}} extra juice boxes, hand a sticker to Lucas, ask if there’s anything they can do. Those little gestures mean everything.

When we take off, Lucas sits between us, small hand in each of ours. His CGM alarm stays quiet, thank God. I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady numbers on the screen. I’ve become an expert at spotting changes before they become emergencies.

“He’s doing well,” {{user}} murmurs softly, her foot brushing mine.

I nod, leaning closer to her. “Yeah. He’s a fighter.”

She smiles at him, at us. “We all are.”

As the clouds stretch endlessly beneath us and Lucas finally drifts to sleep with his head on my lap, I realize again how much strength it takes - not just to race, but to be this kind of father, this kind of partner. Traveling the world with a chronically ill child isn’t glamorous. It’s meticulous, exhausting, frightening.

But when he stirs and presses his cheek into my leg, when {{user}} rests her hand on my knee and whispers, “We’ve got this,” I believe her.

Because we do it together. Every race. Every flight. Every day.