#t1drepresentation

Chapter Three  

The Grove Responds

The morning felt strange from the moment he woke up.

Jamison couldn’t quite put his finger on it—a feeling of fuzziness to his thoughts. He had eaten… or had he? At the moment, he couldn’t remember. Maybe he hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe that was it. Maybe the walk he had taken had taken more out of him than he realized.

He followed the familiar path through the wheat field, past the place where the white rabbit had first appeared to him, and into the woods. The trees appeared to welcome him. Their silvery bark reflected the light coming in through the leaves above. The bark reflected the sun’s glow as if coins were suspended in the air. Sparkling. The air was much cooler here, but it didn’t seem to clear his head.

By the time he reached the grove, his legs had become shaky.

He dropped to the ground beside the stump. His breath had become a bit more labored, and his hands trembled. The symbols etched into the stump swam in and out of focus. Jamison blinked several times, trying to steady himself.

His blood sugar had gone low. He knew the signs well. He had been dealing with them since he was ten.

His fingers fumbled with the zipper of his pouch that contained all of his supplies. He grabbed Lance, his meter, and test strips.

Prick.

Beeeeeeep.

He waited for the number to appear.

He sighed. Too low.

He cursed under his breath and grabbed a couple of gummy bears and a granola bar from his backpack. The gummy bears were to bring his blood sugar back up quickly, and the granola bar to level out his numbers. He tore open the wrapper of the granola bar with his teeth, took a bite, and chewed slowly, even when the world seemed to tilt.

Something had shifted.

The glyphs on the stump seemed to pulse faintly. Then one seemed to glow. There was a spiral wrapped around a crescent. It was soft and steady. Jamison stared, his blood sugar beginning to rise. The fog began to lift.

Ahhh. He felt himself begin to warm up again. Become more aware of his surroundings.

He heard rustling in the bushes nearby. The rabbit appeared again, silent and still, watching from the edge of the grove.

Jamison lay down on the mossy ground, feeling its coolness on his back. The half-eaten granola bar was still in his hand as he continued to chew.

The glyph dimmed, yet it did not fade. Its faint glow pulsed—much like that of a heartbeat.

He whispered, “I’m okay.”

The rabbit hopped closer.

And the forest seemed to whisper back.

Excerpt from: Whispers From the Treehouse

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Chapter One: The Rabbit in the Wheat

Jamison sat on the porch of his grandparents’ farmhouse, the wood warm beneath his feet from the rising sun. The rocking chair creaked softly as he leaned back, a chipped enamel mug of cocoa cradled in his hands. Steam rose from the mug, warming his hands as he cradled it. The morning air was thick with the scent of dew and wheat, and the quiet hum of cicadas filled the silence like a forgotten lullaby. On the farm, the constant hum or ringing of cell phones simply didn’t exist. No signal out in the country, bouncing off cell towers. No loud honking of horns, nobody rushing to get to work, or yelling at one another to get out of the way.

Just a quiet—silence and peace. Nothing but the sound of cicadas. He had been here for three weeks now. Three weeks of stillness. Three weeks of silence. Sometimes he felt lonely, isolated. Three weeks of early mornings and long, slow afternoons. Evenings spent at the pond fishing with his grandfather. He actually enjoyed spending time with his grandfather and listening to all of his crazy stories. Some stories were so outrageous, he swore his grandfather made them up. The farm moved at its own rhythm—unhurried, unbothered. Jamison didn’t mind the quiet most of the time. Not really. But there was something inside him that itched—it was like a question he hadn’t figured out how to ask yet. He felt suspended between two worlds: he was too old to be considered a child, yet he was too young to be considered anything else. The farm was peaceful, but it still wasn’t his home. Well, it didn’t feel like it anyway. His grandparents were kind folks, but distant in their own way—they were wrapped up in their routines and memories that didn’t quite include him. They weren’t used to having kids around anymore. Not after they had raised his dad and he had moved to the big city.

Jamison helped with the daily chores, feeding the chickens, stacking wood, and wandering throughout the fields and surrounding forest. But mostly, he just sat in the rocking chair on the porch thinking. And watched everything around him. And he waited. For what, he didn’t quite know.

Jamison set the mug down on the small table and reached into the canvas bag he kept in his backpack. The backpack had become a part of him. An extension of who he was. The chair creaked softly as he shifted. He pulled out what looked like a pen—a fat pen. It was larger than a regular writing pen, sleeker, and it had much more purpose than an ordinary pen. It was special. It held his insulin. It was a lifeline.

He took out his meter and the small lancing device he and his mom had nicknamed Lance the Lancet when he was ten years old—the same year he was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, during the COVID-19 pandemic. Those were scary times. It seemed like it was the longest week of his life. Each day, his mom had called the doctor's office, trying to get him seen. They were only taking patients at the time who had COVID-19. At least that was what the nurse had kept telling his mom.

When we began writing Whispers From the Treehouse, we knew we wanted to create a story that was filled with magic, mystery, and heart — but we also wanted it to feel real. And for us, “real” includes the everyday courage that it takes living with Type 1 diabetes.

My son lives with T1D, and watching him navigate the world with strength, humor, and resilience has shaped so much of our storytelling together. These kids are brave because they have to be — not just in the big, dramatic moments, but in the quiet ones too. Checking blood sugar during class. Carrying supplies everywhere they go. Handling highs and lows while still trying to navigate the world and be a normal kid.

We wanted a hero who reflects that kind of courage.

That’s why our main character lives with Type 1 diabetes. Not as a plot device. Not as a tragedy. But as a part of who he is — something he manages, something he adapts to, and something that never limits his magic or his potential.

Representation matters. Kids deserve to see themselves in stories, especially kids who deal with challenges most people never see or experience themselves. And parents deserve stories that show their children as the heroes they already are.

Writing this book together as a mother–son duo made that mission even more meaningful. His experiences, insights, and imagination helped shape the character in ways that only someone who truly understands T1D could bring to life and maybe along the way those who don't live with T1D maybe understand it a bit better.

We hope readers — especially those living with Type 1 diabetes — feel seen, celebrated, and empowered when they step into our world.