"Please don't embarrass me," I pleaded with my body yet again as I stepped on what felt like the millionth doctor's office scale. "At least they could let me take off my shoes," I thought begrudgingly after seeing the number climb higher than it did at home. The scene was uncomfortably familiar: me, at another doctor's appointment, hoping this time I'd get the answers I was looking for to explain my seemingly endless weight gain. And I did. I was diagnosed with insulin resistance. The words stung in my ears as a coded way to say "type 2 diabetes," which somehow felt like I was to blame. Luckily, my all-female health team wouldn't let me go down that road. As my healthcare provider Courtney
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