Aging With Type 1 Diabetes: The Oldest Living Person Is 92 (And Somehow That Broke My Heart)

The other day, an Instagram post popped up in my feed.

Libby, 92 years old, is celebrated as the oldest living person with type 1 diabetes, diagnosed in 1941 at age 11.

The post was about Libby Lashansky, who at 92 years old is currently the oldest living person with type 1 diabetes.

Type 1. The diabetes I have.

The post shared pieces of her story—how she was diagnosed decades ago, back when treatment options were limited and grim. When doctors told her she wouldn’t live long, wouldn’t have children, wouldn’t have a full life.

And how she proved them wrong.

She built a life. She built a family. She lived fully and boldly, far beyond what anyone expected of her. Reading her story was incredible. What she achieved is incredible. There is no version of this where I’m trying to negate that.

And also?

When I told my husband about it, I started crying.

Aging With Type 1 Diabetes: When a Number Becomes a Feeling

Not because the story wasn’t inspiring—but because of what that number did to me.

Ninety-two.

For most people, 92 sounds impressive. Aspirational, even.For me, as someone diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at 40, it landed differently. It felt like a ceiling. Like someone quietly saying, This is it. This is as far as it goes.

I know complications aren’t guaranteed, and I know nothing about aging is guaranteed for anyone—diabetes or not. I know that people with type 1 diabetes can live long lives. And yet, there is something devastating about realizing that the oldest living person with the same disease I have is 92. Not 120. Not some outlier living independently at 105.

Just… 92.

This is the strange emotional reality of aging with type 1 diabetes: knowing the statistics aren’t destiny, but still feeling the weight of them anyway.

The Complicated Gift of Diagnosis

What might make this even more confusing is that for a long time, I’ve actually seen diabetes as something that made my life better.

That might sound strange to people who don’t live with it, but being diagnosed explained so many symptoms I had. I was very sick when I was diagnosed. And becoming quote-unquote “healthy” again—learning to take care of myself, becoming stable—changed my life.

It gave me three healthy babies.It gave me an understanding that I can actually feel good again.

And still.

The Days I Hate It

There are days I hate it.

I hate that I’m dependent on technology and supplies to stay alive.I hate that I can’t just be spontaneous without a mental checklist running in the background.I hate that every outing requires calculations, backups, what-ifs.I hate that my body is never something I can fully forget about.

I can’t just go.I have to plan. Check. Pack. Prepare.

And reading about Libby—this extraordinary woman—brought all of that to the surface at once. Pride. Gratitude. Fear. Grief. Jealousy. Awe. Sadness.

I was proud of her.I was happy for her.And I was deeply, unexpectedly sad for myself.

Holding Two Truths at Once

Because living with a chronic illness—and aging with type 1 diabetes in particular—isn’t just about survival or resilience or “doing well.” It’s also about quietly mourning the version of life you thought you’d have—the one where your future didn’t come with asterisks and footnotes.

This wasn’t a breakdown. It was a reckoning.

A reminder that even when you’re coping, even when you’re grateful, even when you’re strong—you’re still allowed to feel shaken by the numbers. By the reminders. By the limits you didn’t choose.

Libby Lashanskys' life is a triumph.And my reaction doesn’t take anything away from that.

It just means I’m human.

And maybe—just maybe—the goal isn’t to beat her record or fear her number, but to do what she did: live fully inside the reality we’re given, even when it scares us.

Some days that feels empowering.Some days it feels heavy.

Both can be true.