Roast Potatoes, Cortisol and the 9:54 to St Pancras

I never fit the diabetes stereotype, yet here I am every year, a month after another less indulgent Christmas, sitting at my doctors having my blood taken to learn whether I’ve wandered back into type 2 territory or managed to hover, once again, in that slightly patronising limbo called “prediabetic.” There’s something uniquely humbling about starting January not with a fresh notebook and unrealistic gym goals, but with a nurse cheerfully tightening a tourniquet while you mentally replay every roast potato you’ve eaten since December.

You might be wondering why I’m writing about this here.

Keep reading.

The part that still irritates me is that I’m not the poster child for metabolic disaster. I don’t live on takeaways or fast food. I don’t snack on chocolate bars in secret, and I’m not pretending vegetables are decorative - I love my veg and salad! I like sausage rolls, yes. I enjoy a scotch egg with the enthusiasm it deserves. Bread and butter is one of life’s great pleasures and I refuse to apologise for that. But I am not reckless. I am not unaware. And yet every year the numbers creep in as if my pancreas has quietly joined a rebellion I wasn’t consulted about.

What I’ve had to learn, slightly unwillingly, is that this isn’t just about food. Chronic stress genuinely alters the way your body handles glucose, because cortisol and adrenaline are not subtle hormones; they prepare you to run from danger by releasing stored glucose into your bloodstream. That is extremely helpful if you are escaping a hungry bear. It is less helpful when the “bear” is catching the 9:54 to St Pancras, or a difficult conversation, or a pressure that never quite switches off. When that cycle repeats often enough, your body can become more insulin resistant over time, meaning the glucose lingers longer than it should, and suddenly you are being gently told to “watch your carbs” as if the entire modern food system isn’t essentially beige.

And that is the bit that feels quietly unfair. We live in a world where cheap carbohydrates are everywhere, fast, convenient and socially normal, and at the same time we are told to manage stress in a culture that practically manufactures it. Somewhere between cortisol, convenience food and just one more roast potato, you find yourself back in that doctors waiting room wondering how something that feels invisible can show up so clearly in black and white numbers.

I should say, this is just my experience and I’m not medically trained, so I’m not trying to rewrite the rulebook on type 2 diabetes. For many people, it is strongly linked to weight, diet and lack of movement, and if you know your lifestyle isn’t great then that is probably where the conversation needs to start. I’m not suggesting stress replaces those factors or magically overrides poor habits. Food choices and exercise matter, and they matter a lot for controlling not only blood sugar levels but mental health!

What I’ve had to come to terms with, though, is that even when you don’t fit the stereotype, even when you’re reasonably active (I even jog!) and not living on fast food, long-term stress and anxiety can still influence how your body handles glucose.

It was actually my GP who first said it plainly, without drama but without sugar-coating it either (excuse the pun), that sustained stress was likely playing a bigger role in my blood sugar than I wanted to admit. Hearing it out loud was uncomfortable, partly because it made sense and partly because it forced me to look at parts of my life I’d carefully labelled as “just busy” or “just driven” or “just how things are.”

There’s another layer to this as well. My dad died from complications related to type 2 diabetes when he was 55, way back in 2003. And as the years tick by and I am now getting closer to that age, that number sits in the back of my mind, moving forward as each year flies by, and rushes to the surface whenever a nurse starts talking about HbA1c levels. The irony is that the anxiety about it probably isn’t helping either, quietly nudging the same insulin resistance I’m working so hard to tame.

I remember one appointment in particular when I was told I had tested in the type 2 range. It hit me like a punch in the gut, enough to scare me into taking the next three months seriously before a second test would confirm it formally. Blood cells refresh roughly every three months, which meant I had a window. A narrow one, but a window all the same.

That was back in 2017. I remember walking out of the GP surgery, getting into the car and just sitting there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. I wasn’t panicking. Well, I was. I wasn’t crying. Well, maybe a little. I was thinking about my Dad.

By the time I pulled up in front of the house, I knew I couldn’t treat this like I had the other times. If this was my new reality, then it deserved a proper response.

What that looked like is a story in itself!