SUGAR, LIKE MY MOTHER
I knew before the doctor spoke. That’s the thing. I knew. Not the magazine-style whisper, but the moment you don’t pull your trousers over your hips without sucking in. The moment you see your mother’s toes curling under in pain.
“Type 2,” he said. A verdict, not a surprise. HbA1c high. I nodded. Laughed quietly — not the funny kind, but the kind that arrives when years of denial finally crystallise.
The sunlight pressed as I walked home. Plastic prescription bag sweating. I didn’t cry. I’d cried smaller, cheaper tears: ignoring tingling feet, foggy mornings, constant thirst. I’d stopped checking blood pressure. Always high. I knew the path; I just didn’t want to face it.
Mother had it. Her sister had it. Ammonia-stench infection. Yellowed metformin boxes beside half-eaten rice crackers. Women like her — like me — endure quietly. Illness is an insult. Or a choice.
It starts small: subtle fatigue, bruised skin, eyes straining. Chalked up to age, stress, fussy body. I told myself: getting older. Need to exercise more. Heat too much.
But I knew. 3am, heart galloping. Tea sweet yet tasteless. Room blurring. The part of me that remembers mother’s winces knew.
Food dominates thoughts now. Not what to eat — what I ate. Shame isn’t gluttony; it’s inheritance. Poverty forms habits: rice twice daily, sweet tea, carbs as culture. Childhood meals were warnings.
I’m not angry. Clarity comes post-diagnosis. Sudden collapse of justifications. Could have acted sooner: movement, glucometer, early tests. I didn’t. Easier not to know. Knowing converts the body into a checklist.
Doctor said “manageable.” I don’t want to manage. I want to undo, choose differently — not only food, but silence, inaction, unasked questions.
I draw the family tree: circle every woman. Metabolic issues, insulin, blindness, guilt, unspoken symptoms.
Walking daily, not redemption — a pact. Twenty minutes, house slippers. Measuring food not for weight but understanding. Bitter tea.
Not a confession. No forgiveness needed. I wish to be seen: a woman who lived with truth long before it was named. Diagnosis proves what I already knew.
The hurt remains.
–––
These stories aren’t rare. They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence — a skipped check-up, a swollen ankle, a breath you dismiss.
He didn’t need saving. Just a warning sooner.
–––
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.
She 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.
Lingzhi is a traditional food taken to support general well-being. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease. For personalised advice, please consult a qualified healthcare practitioner.
#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi
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