The Interview

I’m in the back of a taxi somewhere in Berlin. The driver smells like citrus and stress. We’ve stopped moving. He’s muttering into his headset, gesturing at the road ahead. I don’t ask. I don’t care.

In twelve minutes, I’m meant to be in the lobby of one of the biggest design agencies in Europe, ready to make my pitch — not for a campaign, but for myself. A room full of creative directors waiting to see what the fuss is about. An email came last month — “We saw your graduate portfolio, loved the energy — do you ever come to Berlin?” I said yes, of course, and booked the flight the same day.

This job is the kind people rearrange lives for. Berlin-based, yes, but global in reach — their last project clocked 4.7 million impressions in two days. The salary is three times what I earn now. If I get it, my name could end up on the kind of work that made me fall in love with design in the first place. The woman leading the team once gave a keynote I watched four times in one week.

So yes, it matters.

I glance at my phone. Four new WhatsApps. One says: “Just show them who you are. You’ve got this.” I swipe it away. I don’t know who I am today.

The driver starts moving again. I watch grey buildings shuffle past the window, like indifferent witnesses.

It started, probably, three years ago.

I was still at university. I thought I was just tired. I told my GP it was “the usual”: assignments, late nights, part-time job. But there was a stiffness in my joints that didn’t match my age. My gums bled when I brushed. I got strange mouth ulcers that wouldn’t heal. I felt like I’d aged ten years in a semester. The GP said: “You’re pushing yourself too hard.” I believed him.

Then came the photosensitivity. Harsh sunlight made my skin feel raw. I began dressing like it was November in July. I told people it was fashion.

There were weeks when the pain would vanish — like it had never happened. I ran five kilometres on a Wednesday and couldn’t get out of bed on Thursday.

Still, I submitted every brief on time. I won two national competitions. No one saw it. Pain, buried. Achievement, visible.

After graduation, I made a spreadsheet. I labelled each episode — fatigue, rash, joint ache, insomnia. I colour-coded them by month. I added a new tab: fertility questions. I didn’t like where the data was going.

It was only six weeks ago that someone gave it a name.

The consultant didn’t flinch. She said it like reading a headline: “You have systemic lupus erythematosus.” She showed me the bloods: ANA positive, dsDNA elevated. My kidneys were inflamed.

She mentioned cyclophosphamide. I asked, half-jokingly, “Will it make me infertile?” She didn’t joke back.

“Pregnancy could kill you,” she said, plainly. “You’ll need to decide if that’s something you’re willing to risk.”

I was in my studio flat afterwards, staring at my phone screen. One unread email. Subject: Berlin interview – final confirmation.

I didn’t reply for days. What would I say? Sorry, I might be dead in ten years. Or sooner if I get pregnant. Or later, if I take the meds and sacrifice the chance to ever be a mother. But sure, I’d love to lead your digital storytelling team.

But then something shifted.

I thought about how I’d always written briefs. Frame the problem. Reframe the power. This wasn’t a problem. It was a redesign.

I replied to the email and booked the flight. Not because I wanted to prove something. Because I didn’t want to disappear.

The taxi stops. We’re three blocks from the address. I can walk it. My legs feel heavy, like they’ve been filled with wet plaster. But they work. I make them work.

I open my phone. I reread the WhatsApp. I type back: “I’m here. I’m going in.”

Then, almost without thinking, I write one more email. Not to them — to myself. I draft the words I’d want to read in five years:

You’re not just here for the job. You’re here because you survived it. All of it. Keep going.

I press send.

I step out of the taxi. The air is Berlin-grey and brisk. I feel the wind press against my skin like a reminder. I start walking. Not away from anything — but into what’s next, exactly as I am.

–––

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