Author: Rebecca Collinsworth

The story of insulin is not just a medical milestone. It is a mirror for how medicine evolves. What once seemed impossible is now essential. What was once misunderstood is now foundational. And the reason for that transformation was not just science. It was curiosity.

Curiosity is not a soft skill. It is a clinical imperative. Without it, symptoms are dismissed. Patterns are ignored. And care becomes protocol instead of partnership.

When symptoms do not make sense
Before insulin was discovered, children with Type 1 diabetes were placed on starvation diets because their bodies could not process glucose. At the time, the symptoms did not make sense within the medical model. Hunger and weight loss were viewed as discipline failures rather than biological distress. Patients were blamed. Providers were frustrated.

But someone looked closer. Someone wondered why. And that question changed everything.

Insulin had always been essential. But it took clinical curiosity to uncover its absence. It took a willingness to challenge assumptions and consider that the body was not broken. It was missing something vital.

Listening differently saves lives
Medical breakthroughs often begin with a single moment of discomfort. A patient who does not respond as expected. A case that defies the standard. A symptom that persists despite compliance. In those moments, the temptation is to explain it away.

But real care begins when a provider leans in instead of stepping back. When the body is speaking, even in a language we do not yet understand, the right response is to listen. Not just with data. With discernment.

Curiosity is the skill that bridges data and intuition. It is what helps providers recognize that a patient’s lived experience may be more accurate than the limitations of current knowledge.

When the model is incomplete
There are still conditions today that do not yet fit within the framework of standard care. Patients with chronic fatigue, dysautonomia, unexplained inflammation, or multisystem symptoms are often labeled difficult or noncompliant. But labeling is not listening.

History reminds us that insulin therapy was once met with the same doubt. It did not align with what was believed. It was expensive to produce. It required a shift in power, training, and perspective. And yet, it worked.

The patients had not been wrong. They had been waiting.

From misfit to model
What insulin shows us is that the body often knows long before medicine catches up. Clinical care improves when providers are willing to ask what is missing instead of assuming what is wrong. Curiosity opens the door to options that did not exist before.

Many of today’s protocols were once considered experimental or fringe. They became standard not because consensus was instant, but because someone was willing to follow the evidence with an open mind. Curiosity turns possibility into practice.

Care is not complete without curiosity
It is easy to think of medicine as a finished map. But physiology is not fixed. The human body is still revealing layers of complexity we have yet to fully understand. When symptoms seem disconnected, when outcomes are inconsistent, when patients speak with clarity and still go unheard, the answer is not dismissal. The answer is curiosity.

Curiosity protects the patient. It protects the provider. And it protects the integrity of care.

Want more insights into how medical breakthroughs emerge from misunderstood symptoms? Subscribe to future posts or explore the full series on the history of Type 1 diabetes care. You can also download the full Type 1 Diabetes Timeline PDF as a companion to this post.

Even after insulin proved it could save lives, it was not immediately embraced. The transition from innovation to standard practice was slow, met with skepticism, and shaped by debates that reveal how difficult it can be to change the course of medicine. The story of insulin’s early resistance reminds us that new solutions are often questioned before they are accepted, even when the evidence is clear.

Resistance in the wake of recovery
After Leonard Thompson’s dramatic improvement in 1922, one might expect insulin to have been adopted overnight. But that was not the case. Some physicians still clung to the fasting model, believing it to be the most predictable and responsible form of care. Others simply could not imagine that an injectable substance derived from an animal pancreas could safely or consistently reverse a terminal condition.

There were also practical concerns. The process of refining insulin was still new. Doses varied in strength. Side effects were possible. The cost of producing and distributing insulin was significant, and many providers were not yet trained in how to use it. While the potential was clear, the system had not yet caught up.

The weight of old beliefs
This hesitation was not purely scientific. It was emotional. For decades, physicians had managed diabetes with restriction and rest. Shifting away from what they had built their careers on required humility. It also required a new understanding of the pancreas, an organ that until then had been largely overlooked. Accepting insulin meant acknowledging that many children had died from a condition that was treatable all along.

This is often the challenge in clinical evolution. New evidence challenges old systems. It asks professionals to admit that they may have been wrong, even while doing their best. That can be uncomfortable. But it is also necessary.

Proof that would not be ignored
Over time, the impact of insulin became impossible to dismiss. Children once expected to die were now gaining weight, laughing in hospital wards, and returning home to live full lives. These were not isolated cases. The pattern repeated across hospitals, cities, and countries. Slowly, insulin moved from experimental use to essential therapy.

The change did not happen because everyone agreed. It happened because the evidence kept speaking. Recovery was visible. Outcomes were consistent. And more importantly, the physiology made sense.

The biology was always there
Insulin did not suddenly become powerful. It had always been essential. The body was asking for it all along. What changed was our ability to recognize what was missing. And once that recognition occurred, care improved. Not because the condition changed, but because the understanding deepened.

This is what moves a treatment from questioned to required. When the body’s biology aligns with the observed outcomes, and when those outcomes can no longer be ignored, medicine begins to shift.

Why this matters now
There are still interventions today that meet resistance despite compelling evidence. There are still patients whose outcomes are discounted because their symptoms fall outside traditional frameworks. The history of insulin reminds us that change does not always begin with widespread agreement. It often begins with someone daring to ask if there might be another way.

It is not enough to wait for consensus. Care evolves when we are willing to see what the body is already showing us. What was once experimental becomes essential. What was once dismissed becomes life-saving.

Want more insights into how medical breakthroughs emerge from misunderstood symptoms? Subscribe to future posts or explore the full series on the history of Type 1 diabetes care. You can also download the full Type 1 Diabetes Timeline PDF as a companion to this post.

Before insulin became a recognized medical tool, Type 1 diabetes had no path forward. Families watched their children waste away while following the best treatments available at the time. Then, in one quiet hospital room, everything changed. The story of Leonard Thompson is more than a breakthrough. It is a reminder that curiosity, persistence, and the willingness to try again can save lives and reshape clinical care.

In January of 1922, a young boy named Leonard Thompson was quietly slipping away in a Toronto hospital. At just 14 years old, he was emaciated, barely conscious, and considered out of options. He had Type 1 diabetes. At that time, the only available treatment was starvation. He had already endured months of restriction. Like so many others, he was fading despite every effort to keep him alive.

What happened next did not just change his story. It changed the future of medical care.

The last hope of a desperate era
Leonard had become the face of a heartbreaking reality. Every child with Type 1 diabetes faced the same outcome. Families and physicians could delay decline through severe caloric restriction, but without insulin, there was no way to stop the progression. The body could not survive without energy entering the cells. Until that point, nothing had worked.

A group of researchers in Toronto believed something vital was missing. Dr. Frederick Banting and Charles Best had been working tirelessly to isolate a substance from the pancreas that they believed was responsible for regulating blood sugar. They called it insulin. It had never been administered to a human. They knew the risk. But Leonard was dying. He became the first patient to receive the injection.

The first injection failed
The initial extract was impure. Leonard had a negative reaction. Many would have stopped there. Instead, the team returned to the lab, refined their method, and produced a purer formulation. Days later, Leonard received a second dose.

This time, the results were clear. Leonard began to improve. His energy returned. He was able to eat. His blood sugar stabilized. For the first time in medical history, a child with Type 1 diabetes came back from the edge of death. He did not just survive. He began to recover.

A discovery that redefined care
This was more than a successful intervention. It marked a complete shift in how diabetes was understood. Insulin was not a supplemental aid. It was a required hormone. Leonard’s recovery was the living proof that a missing biological component could be replaced and that the body could restore its function.

His response also revealed something else. Symptoms are not always signs of failure. Sometimes they are signals that something essential is absent. And sometimes, that missing piece can be found.

Why Leonard’s story still matters
There are still conditions today that remain poorly understood. There are still patients with symptoms that do not make sense within the current model of care. Leonard’s story reminds us that just because something has not been validated yet does not mean it is not real. And just because a treatment does not yet exist does not mean it never will.

Curiosity made insulin possible. It made recovery possible. And it made life possible for millions who would have otherwise had no path forward.

From patient to pioneer
Leonard Thompson was not simply the first person to receive insulin. He was the first person to live because of it. His case opened the door to a new era of medical care. It showed what becomes possible when medicine chooses to ask what if instead of settling for nothing more can be done.

That same spirit still matters. It encourages providers to listen differently. It asks clinicians to stay open to emerging patterns and to treat symptoms as information, not misbehavior. And it reminds us that healing sometimes begins with a second try.

Want more insights into how medical breakthroughs emerge from misunderstood symptoms? Subscribe to future posts or explore the full series on the history of Type 1 diabetes care. You can also download the full Type 1 Diabetes Timeline PDF as a companion to this post.

Before insulin changed everything, the leading treatment for Type 1 diabetes was focused on survival, not restoration. Understanding this era helps us recognize how compassionate care can still fall short when the body’s biology is misunderstood.

A time before options
In the years before 1922, Type 1 diabetes was almost always fatal. Without the ability to replace what the pancreas could no longer produce, the only tool doctors had was restriction. Specifically, extreme restriction. Calories, movement, even joy were narrowed to preserve life in any way possible.

The approach was not cruel. It was clinical. The goal was to reduce glucose production and energy expenditure. The method was fasting.

Children were placed on diets that allowed only 400 to 600 calories a day. They were closely monitored, weighed daily, and instructed to consume only the bare minimum required to delay disease progression. These were not neglected corners of care. These clinics were regarded as medical advances.

Frederick Allen and the fasting model
Dr. Frederick Allen was a recognized leader during this period. His clinics operated with precision and structure, rooted in the sincere belief that restriction was the most ethical choice available. Patients were admitted with the understanding that food was not a comfort, but a risk. Hunger was seen as an act of healing.

And for a time, that seemed true. Some patients lived an additional few months, or occasionally a year. But this was not recovery. It was a holding pattern. Families were thankful for more time, but the children were not getting better. They were simply fading more slowly.

Harm wrapped in care
This period in medical history is not defined by cruelty. It is defined by compassion that lacked tools. These patients were deeply loved. They were supported and observed with care. But even the most nurturing support cannot replace a missing biological function. Without insulin, no amount of control or structure could restore cellular energy.

This is what happens when treatment is built on belief instead of biology. These patients were not non-compliant. They were not failing their care. The care itself was incomplete.

Misunderstanding the mechanism
The dominant theory at the time was that diabetes was caused by too much sugar in the body. Therefore, removing food became the central strategy. Fasting seemed logical. Fewer calories would mean fewer sugar spikes.

But the root issue was not an overload of sugar. It was a lack of insulin. Without insulin, glucose could not enter cells. Even small meals could not be metabolized. The body had fuel, but no way to use it. Starvation only delayed the inevitable.

This misunderstanding continued until insulin therapy forced the medical field to reevaluate everything. Until then, patients were asked to restrict. And sometimes, compassion looked like sitting with a child who was hungry and unable to be nourished.

Why we must stay curious
This story is not just about the history of diabetes. It is about the risk of freezing care models in place. People with misunderstood conditions are still being asked to restrict, to wait, to hold on just a little longer. But if the underlying biology is not addressed, those strategies may prolong suffering instead of resolving it.

The fasting clinics of the past did not fail from lack of love. They failed from lack of access. Access to insulin. Access to understanding. Access to a solution that had not yet been discovered.

The legacy of a lesson
Once insulin was available, care transformed. Fasting protocols disappeared. Calories were reintroduced. Children once expected to die began running through hospital halls and returning home. Not just to live longer, but to live fully.

This is the lesson that still applies. When care does not lead to recovery, it is not always the patient who needs to change. Sometimes it is our understanding that must expand. The body is always speaking. It is our responsibility to keep listening.

Want more insights into how medical breakthroughs emerge from misunderstood symptoms? Subscribe to future posts or explore the full series on the history of Type 1 diabetes care. You can also download the full Type 1 Diabetes Timeline PDF as a companion to this post.

Understanding the early missteps in diabetes care can shape how we view current treatment resistance, especially for conditions not yet fully understood.

Before Insulin: A Well-Intended Mistake

In the early 1900s, Type 1 diabetes was not recognized as a condition of insulin absence. Instead, it was viewed as a fuel overload—too much sugar circulating in the blood, waiting to be burned. Physicians often prescribed a now-dangerous combination: caloric restriction and increased physical activity.

The logic was clear to them at the time. If the body could not manage blood sugar, then surely less sugar and more exertion would help restore balance. What they did not yet understand was that individuals with Type 1 diabetes were not struggling with excess sugar—they were struggling with cellular starvation.

Glucose Without Insulin: A Locked Door

Glucose is the body’s preferred energy source, but it cannot enter cells without insulin. Without that key, the fuel is present but inaccessible. Imagine standing outside a house with the lights on and the stove running—but the door is locked, and you are freezing. This is what was happening on a cellular level.

As physicians encouraged more exercise, they unknowingly increased the body’s energy demands while keeping the doors to fuel shut. Many patients, especially children, entered diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA) more rapidly under this approach. Despite best intentions, the outcomes were devastating.

The Physiology Was Speaking All Along

This chapter in medical history illustrates the importance of listening to the body, even when science hasn’t caught up. When outcomes defy expectations, the answer is not always to try harder. It is often to ask better questions.

These patients were not non-compliant. They were not weak or lazy. They were experiencing a physiological reality that defied the current model of care. And still, the body offered clues—rapid weight loss, increased thirst, unrelenting fatigue. But those signs were often attributed to patient failure rather than biological mismatch.

Why This Still Matters Today

The history of Type 1 diabetes care reminds us that medicine evolves through inquiry, not certainty. Many of today’s misunderstood conditions—whether rooted in immune dysfunction, environmental exposure, or autonomic imbalance—still face the same type of disbelief that once met early insulin research.

When care plans don’t seem to work, when symptoms don’t respond as expected, it may not be a matter of motivation or mindset. It may be that something critical is missing from the biological equation.

From Fuel Burn to Fuel Access: A Shift in Framework

Once insulin was discovered, the entire framework changed. Exercise and diet were no longer seen as ways to burn off excess fuel. Instead, they became supportive tools within a larger strategy that prioritized cellular access to energy.

This transition—from misunderstanding to clarity—did not happen overnight. But it began the moment someone dared to ask: what if the body is not broken? What if we are simply misunderstanding the mechanism?

A Call for Clinical Curiosity

Today, there is still resistance to new frameworks of care. But we cannot afford to repeat the same mistake. When physiology does not align with the plan, we must look again. We must ask better questions. We must stay curious.

Because when exercise was the prescription, it was not the patient who failed. It was the model that needed updating.

Want more insights into how medical breakthroughs emerge from misunderstood symptoms? Subscribe to future posts or explore the full series on the history of Type 1 diabetes care. You can also download the full Type 1 Diabetes Timeline PDF as a companion to this post.

Since 1994, I’ve worked at the intersection of health, fitness, and wellness with one guiding truth: there’s always something deeper beneath the surface. Whether supporting a client through strength training, a new diagnosis, or unexplained symptoms, I’ve learned that sustainable change doesn’t come from quick fixes. It comes from listening to what the body is trying to say.

Over the years, I’ve seen firsthand that what looks like a structural issue is sometimes inflammatory. What’s labeled a behavioral concern might actually be systemic. And often, the presentation doesn’t fit the textbook. That never means the experience is any less real.

In the early days, that meant long hours in libraries, digging into medical journals, learning to read mechanisms instead of headlines. I wasn’t studying to become a doctor. I was studying to become a better advocate. And the more I stayed curious, the more I saw lives shift. Not because of a diagnosis, but because someone stayed with the question long enough to connect the dots.

In 1997, my deep dive into diabetes began as a family matter and evolved into a professional mission. The patterns I observed included insulin resistance, inflammation, and hormonal chaos. These patterns weren’t just showing up in diabetes. They were present in cardiovascular disease, autoimmunity, fertility struggles, and painful cycles. At that time, PCOS was rarely mentioned in clinical conversations. But I couldn’t ignore the patterns. And when we responded to them with consistency and care, things changed. People felt better. Labs improved. Function returned.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of working alongside individuals navigating complex diagnoses, including late-stage cancer and kidney failure. Some were told there was little left to do, yet their journey continued well beyond expectations. In these moments, medical curiosity mattered. Collaborative care, quality of life, and staying engaged with the body’s signals made space for possibility.

This space is where I’ll share those moments. The ones that stopped me in my tracks and made me ask:

Does this make physiological sense?

Sometimes the answer was no. And it was chasing that no that often led to the breakthroughs.

I don’t treat conditions. I support people.
This is where we explore the layered wisdom of the human body. Where science meets story. Where curiosity is not only welcome, it’s essential.