Until The Body Remembers

 Time didn’t stop. It just started moving without me.

The deadlines, the calls, the clients — they all kept their rhythm, even as mine faltered. It began quietly: mornings that stretched into noon before I remembered to eat; eyes that burned like open wires from the screen’s blue light. I told myself it was the season — just one more launch, one more quarter, one more all-nighter.

Then came the forgetting. Not the dramatic kind — the quiet lapses that hid in plain sight. The kettle left boiling dry. The document unsent. The name I knew but couldn’t retrieve. My brain felt fogged, as if every thought had to wade through syrup before it reached my mouth.

Sleep slipped first, then appetite. My period vanished for two months. I brushed it off as stress — a word that forgives too much. My skin dulled, my hair thinned, my moods sharpened. I was short with people I loved. I told myself I was fine. Fine was easy to fake.

One morning, I drove to work and forgot how I got there. Not the route — the act of arrival. My hands were still on the wheel, but I had no memory of red lights, turns, or motion. That was when the fear arrived.

The doctor called it “early metabolic disruption” — the polite cousin of burnout. My liver enzymes were high; my cortisol off the charts. “You’re not sick,” he said, “but you’re not well either. Keep going like this and you’ll meet both ends at once — physical and cognitive collapse.”

The phrase lodged like shrapnel. Collapse.

I didn’t crash dramatically. I unravelled. I started cancelling dinners, not from discipline but from fatigue. The world shrank to my desk, my bed, my pills. Even joy became a negotiation.

Then one morning, my mother sent a parcel — Lingzhi capsules, a note in her careful handwriting: “Not medicine. A reminder.”

At first, I laughed. But I took them. One each morning, glass of warm water, five minutes of stillness. It wasn’t healing; it was listening. The fog began to lift, not as revelation, but as return.

Now, I measure my days differently — not by output, but by breath. I still work hard, but I leave the desk before my body leaves me.

I don’t chase time anymore. I meet it — between blinks, between breaths, between what I owe and what 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.

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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