Ashes of Sweetness

Epigraph

“The body knows well what the mind only understands in time.”


–––

I taste it before I see it.
A biscuit left on the counter, its sugar humming beneath the cardboard wrap.
My fingers brush the edge, and the sweetness lingers on my tongue before my consciousness registers the act.
A small betrayal, repeated thousands of times in the quiet hours between meals, between duties, between awareness.

Mornings arrive in measured increments: the tremor in my hands as coffee pours too quickly, the flutter of energy that fades too soon, leaving heaviness behind.
The pancreas hums — a patient engine learning it is no longer trusted, no longer obeyed.
Each cell whispers rebellion in insulin pulses I cannot yet see, only feel.

I once believed indulgence was harmless — a reward for long hours, for being “good enough.”
Now I feel the slow burn, the ash of sweetness settling in my body.
Not a fire that scorches, but a smoulder — a soft erosion that begins at the edges of vitality.

Friends joke about indulgence.
I nod, smile.
They cannot hear the revolt beneath my skin — the fatigue after meals, the tremor that lingers, the fog that clouds thought when blood sugar dips in silence.

The doctor calls it “borderline,” “early warning.”
Words too light for what I feel.
Blood tests nearly normal. Hemoglobin A1c inching upward.
The pancreas, a quiet historian, recording each indulgence, each neglect, every small untruth I tell myself about balance.

There is no diagnosis yet — only awareness, walking beside me like a quiet companion.
Each craving a message, each wave of fatigue a coded letter from the body.
I must learn this language before the messages become a ledger.

At night, the body speaks freely.
I feel the energy dip and rise, a slow tide of anticipation and surrender.
In the fridge, forgotten fruit waits — patient, unprocessed, kind.
I have neglected it too, drawn instead to convenience and immediacy.
My body remembers the difference.

I think of my mother — her ritual of sweetened tea and quiet warnings.
Moderation, she said, is respect — not just for the body, but for life itself.
I wonder if she knew that sugar carries memory — that it can archive grief, impatience, and longing within the blood.

Each morning, I try a small act of restitution.
A walk. Water. A meal planned instead of grabbed.
The sweetness still lingers, but I meet it with attention, not surrender.
Slightly, the tremor stills. The fog lifts.
Not victory — negotiation.

There is hope in these micro-practices.
The endocrine system, patient and wise, records everything — but it also forgives.
The ash of indulgence can become soil for renewal.
The body’s memory is long; its intelligence, quiet but formidable.

Subhealth does not shout.
It whispers.
The cracks in energy, the tremors after meals, the uninvited fog — they are not inconveniences.
They are preludes.
Invitations to notice before silence becomes suffering.

So I walk the thin line between indulgence and attention.
Each choice a brushstroke on the canvas of endocrine health.
Each sip, each bite, each breath — a conversation.

Subhealth is reversible.
It is intelligence calling for dialogue, not a sentence passed.
It is the body’s plea for early listening.
Those who hear, respond, and act with care may yet reclaim vitality before the ash turns to embers.

–––


These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.

Subhealth often hides in endurance.

Early signs are subtle —
fatigue mistaken for busyness, dull aches dismissed as age,
breathlessness, fog, cravings, irritability, restless sleep.
Each is a quiet signal —
the body asking for balance before imbalance becomes illness.

Subhealth is the dialogue before diagnosis —
the body’s early language of self-preservation.

Listening sooner — through testing, rest,
or even honest admission — is not weakness.
It is survival.


––– 

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
What matters most is noticing —
and choosing to listen, before silence deepens.

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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