Learning to See Again

I used to think tiredness was proof of purpose.
Now, it’s proof of disappearance.

The world exists behind glass — twelve hours a day of screens, spreadsheets, and blue light that slices through the soft edges of thought. My eyes ache even when closed. When I blink, I see phantom grids, white boxes that hover in the dark like ghosts of unfinished work.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. My body hums as if still plugged in — a faint electrical tremor beneath my skin. Sometimes, even silence feels digital, pixelated, as if reality itself is buffering.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s online. I told myself the headache was dehydration, the blurred focus just overwork. I adjusted brightness, took magnesium, changed glasses. But the fog grew heavier, slower — thought lag, emotional static.

Then came the moment I couldn’t ignore.

I was at a café, editing a report. The light hit the screen and my vision fractured — the world split into shards, each one a second behind the other. For a full minute, I couldn’t remember how to see. Just outlines. Just glare. My hands trembled over the keyboard, searching for a cursor that wasn’t there.

The doctor called it neuro-visual fatigue syndrome — a modern condition, he said, “a body wired for survival trying to survive signal overload.” My cortisol was spiking even at rest. My eyes showed signs of microvascular strain — thin red threads across the sclera, early optic stress, precursors to cognitive slowdown.

“You’re not broken,” he said. “But your nervous system is negotiating for peace.”

I laughed, though nothing about it was funny.
Peace — the one thing I’d stopped offering myself.

He told me to rest. To limit screens. To walk in daylight — actual daylight — not the artificial pulse of a monitor. But rest felt dangerous. Stopping meant feeling. And feeling meant facing what I’d built my entire identity to outrun.

Still, one evening, I did stop. Power outage. No glow, no hum, no artificial warmth. The apartment breathed differently — shadows returned to their real shapes. I lit a candle and felt the tremor in my hands slow. The flame flickered, soft and uneven, but it held.

I brewed a small cup of Lingzhi tea, a habit I’d forgotten from my grandmother’s house. The smell was earthy, ancient — not comfort, exactly, but recognition. As I drank, the tightness behind my eyes loosened. The fog didn’t clear — it softened.

For the first time in months, I saw the flame not as light — but as life. Flickering, fragile, alive.

Now, I work differently. I step away when the screen starts to hum. I walk without a device. I watch the way sunlight changes the colour of walls — real light, alive light.

I’m learning that the body doesn’t betray you. It warns you. It waits for you.

It’s not the light that heals.
It’s the pause between exposure and attention —
the distance where vision learns to see again.

–––

Warnings Whispered

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory
Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use.

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