JUST MY TYPE w/Laura Pavlakovich

When it comes to living with Type 1 diabetes, Laura Pavlakovich knows the weight it carries—not just physically, but emotionally. A Southern California native diagnosed as a child, Laura spent years hiding her devices, her diagnosis, and parts of herself just to feel “normal.” But in the face of isolation, she created connection. As the founder of You're Just My Type, Laura is redefining what support looks like—leading with honesty, empathy, and a whole lot of heart.

​ALLIÉ: Let's begin by your beginning. You grew up in Southern California, a beach girl diagnosed with type 1 diabetes as a kid. Can you take me back to that time? What do you remember most about the early days of navigating a diagnosis that I imagine would change your life?
 
LAURA: Yeah, it's so crazy, right? Because when you're five years old, you have no idea that what just happened to you will change your entire life and direct the course of your life. But I was so young, I luckily don't remember much.
 
Everything I know has been told to me by my mom, but the symptoms of type 1 diabetes are all pretty textbook: frequent urination, rapid weight loss, and extreme thirst. My mom said we would walk to school together every day, and one day, she noticed that I could no longer walk up this small hill we always climbed—I was getting too weak. That was the first thing that made her think, What is going on? This is so weird. Then I started wetting the bed, and she thought, This is also very strange. She knew something was wrong. She had no idea what it was, but she knew I was getting sick and got really scared.

She took me to my pediatrician—this was back in 1996, when things were so different. Thank God she took me when she did. The pediatrician said she would do a fasting blood test and told my mom to take me home, not give me any food or water for 12 hours, and bring me back the next day.

Most people don’t know this, but before you’re diagnosed with type 1, your blood sugar is extremely high because your body isn’t producing any insulin. That’s why you're so thirsty all the time. My mom told me I was screaming bloody murder because I needed something to drink, and I was starving. But the doctor had told her she couldn’t give me anything.

So she brought me back the next day. They did the blood test, and my pediatrician came out and said, “Your daughter has type 1 diabetes. Drive straight to Children’s Hospital. There’s a team of specialists waiting for you.”

Now, of course, we all know you can take a blood sugar reading with a meter in five seconds. Literally—five seconds. So, all of that felt very unnecessary. I feel worse for my mom, having to go through that. But I have this really distinct memory of being in the hospital, playing with a Hello Kitty toy, and looking up while my mom was on the phone with my dad, hysterical, telling him I had this diagnosis. I remember thinking, Something really bad is happening.
I was in kindergarten at the time, and everything changed. I went to a really small private school. We didn’t have a school nurse, but my mom would come to school every day at lunchtime to test my blood sugar and give me a shot. Suddenly, I had to bring a lunchbox packed with Post-it notes on every single food item listing how many carbohydrates each one had. I got to have snacks throughout the day that other kids didn’t get to have. And I knew I was different.
Of course, I couldn’t grasp the full scope of the disease, but I became “the different one.” I was the only kid with it. So, all of a sudden, I was that girl. Yeah, I was the “diabetic girl” at Saturday night sleepovers. It was awful.

ALLIÉ: So every day, she would come and give you a shot at school. Every day from your diagnosis on, you've had to calculate everything that goes into your body. That's a lot of math to do constantly.
 
LAURA: And I hate math. But we lived really close by. And again, we were so fortunate because she had a job that allowed her to do this. Otherwise, I don't know what we would have done without having a nurse there.
 
I maybe would have had to switch schools, but she said she knew I learned pretty quickly what I needed to do. One day, my mom called the school and she's like, “I'm gonna be right around the corner, but just let's try something. When Laura comes in today for me to test her blood sugar, just tell her that I can't make it and see what she does.” And she said, “If you need me, I'll be right here. I just really wanna see.” And so I came in and they said, “Your mom can't make it.” And I was like, “Okay.” And I took the thing, tested my own blood sugar, got a shot and from probably around the same year I was diagnosed or the following, I kind of just took over with the physical stuff.
 
ALLIÉ: I just can't… back to that part of the story you shared about that terrible 12-hour fasting test, I cannot imagine my child screaming because they’re thirsty. And to think that things have changed for the better, but not probably enough.
 
LAURA: A lot of parents think their kids don’t have type 1 diabetes but rather symptoms that sound a lot like flu symptoms. So, parents give their kids liquids like 7-Up or drinks with electrolytes like Gatorade, but these things that are raising their blood sugar so high and causing them to be in way worse shape by the time of diagnosis. It’s never easy for the parents.
 
ALLIÉ: Let's fast forward to a moment here. Because you've shared that in high school, someone actually ripped off your insulin pump, not knowing what it was?! I can only imagine that moment. I mean, some scars are visible, but this must be an invisible scar for you. Can you walk me through that experience? Bring me back to that moment.
 
LAURA: It's so interesting because that memory was blocked in my head for a long time, and it actually took a lot of therapy for me to remember that happening.

So, I was put on an insulin pump when I was really young, kindergarten or first grade. That was like my life. I had my insulin pump on me at all times. Then when I went to high school, I switched from a really tiny private school where everyone knew me to a huge public high school with 2,200 kids. I think only four of us at that entire high school had diabetes. Back then, insulin pumps looked like pagers. This was still in the early 2000s. They had a long tube connected to a reservoir of insulin into an infusion set in your body. There you have a little cannula inside your body. Well, someone just came up thinking it was a pager and they're like what's that and they took the pump off my pocket and the site ripped out of me.
 
Again, I blocked it out of my memory because it was so traumatizing. When that happened, I honestly don't remember the exact moment, but I went home and I told my mom, “I'm getting off the pump right now.” I was 14-years-old, and I said, “I don't want this anymore. I don't want people to see it on me. I don't want them to ask me questions…” I'm getting emotional just talking about it. I was like, “I just don't want to be that girl. I've been that girl this whole time. I finally got to a good place at that school. I don't have the energy to explain it to all of these new faces.” And that just put this little sense of I guess we can say shame. I would hang out with new friends and unhook my insulin pump before we'd hang out, which is a very dangerous and terrible thing to do because that's what's giving you insulin throughout the day. I remember I would unhook it and then be like, “Okay, I'm normal right now.” I got to hang out with my friends, and I'd have nothing visible on me for them to know. Of course, I'd get really sick because my blood sugar would be so high without insulin.
 
ALLIÉ: But being sick was worth it to you at that age, just so you could fit in. Yeah?
 
LAURA: A hundred percent.

ALLIÉ: Those are big things to deal with. So, you talk about the emotional toll of diabetes sometimes being even harder than the physical part. Can you just talk me through that?
 
LAURA: When people think of diabetes, first of all, there's a lot of misinformation. There's a lot of stigma. There's type 1, there's type 2, and there's a million types in between that also people don't know about. And when people think of it, in my opinion, it's like, “Numbers, oh, you have to count your carbs. It's a lot of food counting, and it's shots.” And I wish that's all it was.
 
I have this new metaphor of how to describe what it's like having type one diabetes. And I'm sure this is similar for a lot of people with chronic illnesses. But when I was trying to process, I would get in these really depressive spirals when I would think about having diabetes for the rest of my life. And the way I could finally put it into words is that it felt like I was dropped into the deep end of an ocean. And the only way to survive is by treading water through your hands and legs the whole time, but there's no shore. So you're not swimming to somewhere you can ever rest. You're just treading so you don't die. And if you stop, you drown… You can't stop. And people can swim by you and think you're fine because they think you're swimming (not treading). “Look at her! She’s having this great time.” But you can't rest, and you can't really explain. It's hard to understand unless you've lived it. It's so invisible. And people only think it's easy because us as a type one community, we make it look so easy as we walk around unintentionally hiding the actual burden.
 
So yes, I have to count every single carbohydrate that goes into my body. I have to test my blood sugar throughout the day. I have to take an insulin injection every single time I eat. Every time my blood sugar goes low, I have to eat sugar. If I exercise, I have to plan for that, too. It’s like a video game where the stakes are your life—too much insulin can kill you, not enough can kill you. And I’m the one who has to make that call. We’re not doctors. Kids aren’t doctors. It’s a wild disease.

And I don’t think people really understand the scope of it. It’s hard to ask for help. And it’s nearly impossible not to feel like a burden. I think every single type 1 I’ve met shares that same feeling. You’re on a hike with friends and suddenly have to say, “We need to stop right now—my blood sugar’s low.” Or you’re at work, in a meeting, and you’re seeing double because of your blood sugar. I went to a comedy show the other night where they made everyone lock up their phones, and I had to have a whole conversation with the staff explaining that I can’t be separated from mine—it tells me my blood sugar in real time.

On top of all that, we have to be our own advocates with insurance companies. Diabetes is one of the most expensive diseases to live with. Insulin is the eighth most expensive liquid in the world. So we’re already fighting mentally, emotionally, physically—and then we have to fight the doctors, the insurers, and big pharma just to afford the medication that keeps us alive. It’s a layered mental prison.

Over time, I think I got really good at dissociating. I’d tell myself: just don’t think about it. You can’t think about it. It’s day by day—get through today, then tomorrow. But my weak point is this thought I keep coming back to: I’ve already had this for 30 years… and there’s no end in sight.

You go to get a massage to relax, and you’re wondering if your phone’s going to beep during it—do you turn it off and risk not waking up if you go low? Massages can make your blood sugar drop. You go on vacation and it’s all new food—new carb counts you don’t know, possibly a new language, time zone shifts. You have to change settings.

It’s a disease you cannot escape. You don’t get a break. It’s relentless. And no one knows, because we’re walking around with these little devices on us—and to everyone else, we look fine. But it’s hard to understand what it really takes.

ALLIÉ: I hear you 100%. It’s different for me—because I don’t have diabetes—but I do have multiple sclerosis. And to your point, I loved the metaphor you used. People see you in the middle of the ocean swimming and think, “Oh, she’s having a great time.” But they don’t know you’re just trying to survive.
So, Laura—when was the moment that shifted things for you? When did you realize that the mental health side of this needs to be part of the conversation, and that you wanted to do something about it?
 
LAURA: After high school, I went to this photojournalism program that focused on injustice and poverty. It was volunteer work in developing countries, and I was really young—just 17. It was life-changing. I came home to Redondo Beach with this moral obligation to change the world. But I felt lost. I wanted to photograph something meaningful. People were like, “Take photos of the ocean or dolphins,” and I remember thinking, this isn't it. But nothing about diabetes crossed my mind at that point.

Then in 2016, I was at a wedding talking to the photographer, a mom who barely knew me. She started telling me about her four-year-old son who was just diagnosed with type 1. She said he cried himself to sleep at night because he felt like he was the only person in the world with it. She told me, “I can only show him computer statistics so many times before it stops meaning anything.”

And I swear, in that moment, it clicked: this is it. I’m going to take photos of people with type 1 and share their stories. I wanted to give that little boy a book of faces instead of stats. Real people, not just numbers. That’s how You’re Just My Type began.

It started small. I was nannying and working in restaurants, but I started calling up my friends from diabetes camp and asking if I could take their photos. My mom had created a support group called the South Bay Hot Shots, so I had connections to people with type 1. I always had these little glimpses of belonging, but they were fleeting. You’d see your camp friends for a week, then not again for another year.

We started interviewing people. We asked the same set of questions: “What mental health advice would you give?” “What’s something you thought you couldn’t do with type 1, but you proved yourself wrong?”

It built this beautiful, healing community. Then COVID hit, and I couldn’t photograph people in person anymore, so I put out a Google Form: Send in your photo and your story from wherever you are. And we blew up. People from Finland, Bangladesh, India, China—stories from all over the world. Tens of thousands of followers.

In 2021, my nanny job ended and I was completely burnt out. Drowning, honestly. But I had this wild idea: what if we did an in-person event?
Everyone said, “Laura, what are you thinking? It’s COVID, everything is canceled.” But I just knew. People needed this now more than ever.
So we hosted our first event for young girls with type 1—ages 8 to 17. Every volunteer was a woman with type 1. We had a behavioral therapist, a social worker, a yoga instructor, a nutritionist, an artist… all with type 1. It was like a mini mental health summit.
It was beautiful. Afterward, I thought maybe this would just be for young girls. But the community said, “No, no. We all need this.” Adults, boys, older generations—everyone. So we kept going.

Now, we call these gatherings “life rafts.” When you find someone who gets it—even just one person—it changes everything. You don’t have to attend a big event. You don’t need 40 other people in the room. One person who truly understands is enough to help you catch your breath.
That’s what this community is: a place to breathe. A place to rest your limbs after all that treading water. And then start again, with just a little more strength than you had before.

ALLIÉ: And I love how you said a moment ago—how the project started with photos so people could actually see it. This is what it looks like. This is what I look like. And how, for that little boy, it wasn’t about numbers. It was about seeing faces.
 
LAURA: Exactly. Not just statistics—we're real. And we're everywhere.
 
ALLIÉ: So, I guess my last question is this: you've created such an incredible space where people now truly feel seen and understood. Is there a single moment—or maybe a story—that makes you sit back and think, this is why I do this?
 
LAURA: My number one was during one of our toddler-specific events. We started hosting events for type 1 toddlers, but really, they were for the parents. These parents are suffering. They need to be around other parents who are going through the same thing to feel the same kind of relief we get. The kids? They’re just two, three, four years old—they don’t fully understand what’s going on yet.

We’d rent out a little gym or play space so the kids could just run around. We’ve been doing them for a few years now, and I think it was in the second year that this moment happened.

Two little girls were on the same monkey bars, and I noticed they had their devices in the same spots. I thought it was just too cute, so I started filming them. One of the girls is swinging, and mid-swing, she looks over and sees the other girl’s insulin pump. She just stops. She drops down, runs over to me and says, “That girl has diabetes—just like me.”

She was emotional. I looked at her and said, “They all have diabetes. Just like you.”

And in that moment, I realized: this is for them now. These kids are going to grow up in a world where they’ve never been the only one. They’ve never been “the different kid.” They’ve had 15 or 20 other kids who go to events with them every few months. They'll grow up never feeling alone. I can’t believe I got that moment on camera. It chokes me up every single time.

Another moment that stands out: we have adults who come to our events completely alone. They’ve never met another person with type 1 in real life. They show up bravely, all by themselves, not knowing anyone.

At one of our events in downtown L.A., I saw this guy walk in—I’d never met him before. He walked into the room, looked around at everyone… and he saw. He saw the pumps, the CGMs, the sites. It’s L.A., so a lot of people are in tank tops and t-shirts. You can see everything.
I walked up quietly, introduced myself, and he looked at me and said, “Everyone here has type 1?”

I nodded. “Everyone here has type 1.”

And I watched him exhale for the first time.

Because until you experience that kind of community, it’s like you’ve been speaking a language no one else understands. Then, suddenly, you’re in a room where everyone speaks it. They get you. No explanation needed. And the relief that comes with that—it’s massive.

ALLIÉ: Yes. What you’re saying—it's just as true for adults as it is for kids. We all have this deep need to be seen and understood. I’ve had conversations like this within the MS community. When I’m with others who have it, I don’t have to explain anything. And that’s such a gift—because explaining is exhausting. To just be… in a space with people who get it… that’s everything. Community really is everything. Your people—your people—are everything.

LAURA: Exactly. Community is everything. We all just want to belong. Every human being is searching for that—somewhere we belong.
That’s something we take really seriously at You’re Just My Type. Because even within the type 1 community, it can still feel hard to find your place. Some groups feel exclusive. You might not see yourself represented.

So for us, it’s simple: your diagnosis is your ticket in.

It doesn’t matter your age, your race, your gender, your sexuality--none of that matters. If you have type 1, you belong here. No questions asked. No explanations needed. That’s what we want to give people. A place where they don’t just feel seen—they are seen. Always. ​∎

Learn more about You’re Just My Type:
www.yourejustmytype.com
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@yourejustmytype1