On a football pitch in Johor Bahru, Frederick Yap had a job to do.
Playing defensive midfield, he stood just in front of the defenders, where the work is not always glamorous but almost always important. His role was to pressure, disrupt, track advancing opponents and break up attacks before they became dangerous.
It was a position that demanded stamina, strength, composure and positional intelligence.
For Frederick, it was also something more.
The nine-year-old was returning to the pitch after almost two years away, having been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in April 2024. He had stopped training and playing immediately after his diagnosis. But according to his parents, his natural sporting ability had not disappeared.
Football was not new to him. Neither was movement. He had always shown a flair for physical activities, from football to skateboarding, picking things up quickly and fearlessly.
To anyone watching from the side, he may have looked like any other active, bright and determined child on the field.
But for his parents, the match was never just a match.
It was also glucose levels, insulin, snacks, hydration, ice packs, emergency supplies and the constant calculation that comes with caring for a child whose blood sugar can change within minutes.
His mother put it plainly: “Type 1 diabetes does not take a break.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because childhood should be allowed to run. It should be allowed to sweat, compete, laugh, fall, get back up and try again. But for families living with Type 1 diabetes, every ordinary activity carries an extra layer of planning.
Before the tournament, Frederick’s parents had to think about what many parents never have to consider. Would he have enough snacks in case his glucose dropped? Would there be enough fluids to keep him hydrated? How would they keep his insulin cool under the hot sun? How would his body respond to intense activity?
Exercise can make the body more sensitive to insulin and cause glucose to be used up faster. For a child with Type 1 diabetes, that means sports can sometimes cause blood sugar to rise or fall unexpectedly. Even after exercise, insulin sensitivity may remain elevated for several hours, raising the risk of night-time lows.
So his parents prepared.
They carried snacks. They carried insulin. They carried glucose. They monitored his levels. They watched for signs. They calculated, adjusted and stayed alert.
At one point during the two-day tournament, keeping the insulin cool under the hot sun became such a concern that the family had to drive to a nearby 7-Eleven to buy a whole bag of ice.
The ice was meant for the insulin.
By the end of the day, it had become useful for the children too. Other young players came over asking for ice cubes to cool down their bodies and drinks.
It was a small scene, but it said a lot.
Sometimes care looks like a parent standing quietly at the sidelines. Sometimes it looks like a bag of ice. Sometimes it looks like planning so carefully that a child gets to feel like every other child.
That, perhaps, is the heart of Frederick’s story.
His parents do not want him to be treated as fragile. They do not want pity. They do not want his condition to become the first thing people see.
They want him to be accepted, supported and understood.
During the tournament, only the coaches were aware of his condition. His teammates did not necessarily know. To them, he was simply Frederick — a boy who loved football and wanted to play.
The coaches allowed his parents to step into the dugout when needed to check his glucose level through a continuous glucose monitor (CGM). Apart from that, he was judged by the same things that matter in sport: performance, character, attitude and effort.
That kind of support matters.
Not because children with Type 1 diabetes need to be wrapped in cotton wool, but because they need adults around them to understand what the condition requires.
There were difficult moments. His family said there were times when Frederick had to stop playing because his blood sugar was too low or too high. For a parent, it is heartbreaking to watch your child sit out while teammates continue.
But it is also necessary.
The challenge is not only physical. It is emotional too. A child has to learn that taking a short break does not mean he is weak. It does not mean he has failed his team. It is simply part of living with Type 1 diabetes.
And each time Frederick returned to the field, he showed something important: with preparation, support and determination, children with Type 1 diabetes can still take part in sports and chase their goals.
His team finished fourth.
But the more meaningful achievement may not have been the placing. It was the return.
It was a child stepping back onto the field after a diagnosis that could easily have frightened a family into saying no. It was parents choosing not to let fear become a cage. It was a reminder that illness may change the way a family plans, but it should not be allowed to take away a child’s right to play.
Still, Frederick’s story also raises a wider question.
How much of this burden should families have to carry alone?
His parents believe there is still not enough awareness about Type 1 diabetes in schools and the wider community. Many people still do not understand that Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune condition. It is not caused by eating too much sugar. It is not contagious. Children with Type 1 diabetes are not naughty, weak or difficult. They simply need insulin to survive and support to manage their blood glucose safely.
Frederick’s family is not alone in this. But just how many Malaysian families share this experience? The numbers are not easy to pin down.
A BERNAMA commentary by consultant physician, endocrinologist and diabetologist Dr Chooi Kheng Chiew, citing the Ministry of Health’s National Diabetes Registry Report 2023, said 289 individuals under 18 were recorded as living with diabetes in Malaysia. The same commentary noted that paediatric cases, especially Type 1 diabetes, are often not captured in adult-focused systems, which means the real number is likely higher. It also cited International Diabetes Federation data stating that 977 Malaysian children and teenagers under 18 had been diagnosed with diabetes—a figure that includes both Type 1 and Type 2 cases.
For families like Frederick’s, the data gap matters. If children with Type 1 diabetes are not clearly seen in the numbers, their needs may also be less visible in schools, sports and public support systems.
For some families, the gaps in support are not just inconvenient—they are exhausting. What would it look like if Malaysia had a dedicated foundation for Type 1 diabetes? Not just a charity that writes cheques, but one that builds systems: training for teachers, subsidies for CGMs, and a community for families who often feel they are managing this alone.
Access is not only about awareness. It is also about continuity of supplies, affordability and the tools families need to manage the condition safely.
This is where the conversation becomes bigger than one football match.
Malaysia does not lack diabetes awareness entirely. But Type 1 diabetes in children is specific enough, misunderstood enough and demanding enough that families may need a clearer platform of support — especially when it comes to schools, sports, CGM access and public understanding.
For schools, the needs are not complicated, but they are important.
Teachers and coaches should know the signs of low and high blood sugar. They should understand why a child may need to drink water, go to the toilet, eat a snack, check glucose levels or rest for a while. They should know that a child who cannot concentrate may not be misbehaving. His blood sugar may simply be out of range.
Classmates and other parents also need awareness.
A child should not be teased for wearing a CGM. He should not be made to feel strange for taking insulin or eating during class when medically necessary. He should not be excluded from sports or activities because the adults around him are unsure what to do.
Understanding does not mean lowering expectations.
It means making participation safer.
It means allowing a child to be a child.
For some families, managing T1D can cost hundreds of ringgit a month. Frederick’s parents said the financial burden rises sharply for those who rely on diabetes technology. An insulin pump can cost about RM30,000 upfront, while CGM sensors can cost about RM600 a month. With tubing and related supplies, they estimate that the first-year cost for a child using both an insulin pump and CGM can approach RM50,000. The recurring cost may be lower after the initial pump purchase, but sensors and consumables still need to be replaced regularly.
Frederick’s message to other children with Type 1 diabetes is simple: “Don’t be afraid. You’re not alone.”
It is the kind of sentence adults would do well to take seriously.
Because children should not have to be brave alone. Their parents should not have to educate every room from scratch. Schools should not wait for an emergency before learning what Type 1 diabetes means.
What families like Frederick’s need is not sympathy. They need a clearer support system.
For some, that could mean a dedicated Type 1 Diabetes foundation — one that advocates for CGM access, trains teachers and coaches, and connects families so no one has to navigate this alone.
A support system would not remove the burden of Type 1 diabetes. But it could ensure that preparation and understanding are not left to chance.
Because a child’s safety on the field should not depend only on what his parents remember to pack.
It should also depend on the adults around him knowing what to do.
Most of all, it should allow him to play.
Author’s note: The family featured in this story has given permission for their experience to be shared. Some details have been included with their consent. The data cited from the Ministry of Health and International Diabetes Federation is accurate as of the time of writing.
