Continuous glucose monitors (CGMs), known for tracking glucose levels, are increasingly used by people who are not diabetic. This trend raises questions about their psychological impact, particularly for those who might obsess over the data they provide.
About a year ago, I decided to try out CGMs, inspired by the buzz surrounding their use among wellness influencers and biohackers. My experience began with the application of a Dexcom Stelo and an Abbott Lingo on my arms, both designed to give real-time glucose readings. Although I had no medical need for monitoring my glucose—my A1C levels were normal—I was curious about the insights these devices could provide.
Initially, I approached the experiment with an open mind, but it quickly evolved into an extensive year-long exploration. I consulted with numerous doctors, researched studies, and found myself caught in a cycle of anxiety regarding the information displayed on my CGM apps. The fear of potential health issues loomed large as I noticed fluctuations in my glucose readings.
The FDA cleared the first professional use CGM in 1999, primarily for Type 1 diabetics. However, recent advancements have led to over-the-counter versions aimed at non-diabetics as well. As I learned more about the technology, I began to recognize its potential benefits for prediabetics and Type 2 diabetics, but the utility for non-diabetics remained questionable.
Despite my lack of a medical diagnosis, the data I was collecting felt both empowering and overwhelming. I found myself obsessively analyzing my glucose levels after meals, workouts, and even during sleep. The reality of wearing a CGM 24/7 became a double-edged sword; while it provided data, it also led to a constant state of hyper-awareness regarding my health.
As I monitored my glucose levels, I encountered spikes that caused immediate concern. My morning glucose levels often exceeded the recommended range, triggering a flurry of doctor visits. Each consultation yielded mixed responses—while my A1C results remained optimal, my liver enzymes and cholesterol levels indicated potential issues. The repeated cycle of testing only heightened my anxiety.
Over time, I learned that factors such as sleeping positions could affect CGM accuracy, leading to erroneous readings. This realization added another layer of complexity to my experience. The devices, while informative, were not foolproof, and I struggled to discern which readings were accurate and which were not.
The financial aspect of using CGMs also became a consideration. Although I received several test units, the average cost for a user could reach around $100 per month. This prompted me to limit my usage to once every quarter, emphasizing the need for responsible monitoring.
Throughout my journey, I became increasingly fixated on my diet, avoiding foods that might trigger glucose spikes. This obsession led to an unhealthy relationship with food and exercise, culminating in anxiety during social gatherings. The pressure to maintain low glucose levels overshadowed my ability to enjoy meals with family and friends.
Eventually, after a year of extensive testing and self-monitoring, I sought a new doctor who offered a fresh perspective on my health. Despite my previous efforts, my metabolic issues persisted. It was only after starting medication that I began to see significant improvements in my health metrics.
Reflecting on my CGM experience, I recognize the benefits of having access to such technology for non-diabetics. However, I also caution against promoting CGMs as a cure-all for metabolic health. My journey illustrates the complexities and potential pitfalls of obsessing over health data without proper context or guidance.
Ultimately, my experience with CGMs has been transformative yet challenging. While I appreciate the insights gained, it’s clear that the road to understanding and optimizing my health is multifaceted, involving both technology and medical intervention.
Source: The Verge News