Half-Digested Days

 Epigraph:

"The body whispers before the mind realises the words.


–––

I wake and the kitchen smells wrong — not burnt, not stale, just off. The tiles underfoot feel slick, though dry. My fingers brush the edge of the counter, and a shiver travels up my arm, a subtle signal that my body is already negotiating the day ahead.

Breakfast sits uneaten. Each bite feels heavy in its anticipation, as if my stomach resists the act of digestion before it even begins. I try to think clearly, but thought slips like water through the fingers. Emails, messages, chores — the sequence fractures in my mind, leaving moments of vertiginous pause where I stare at the blank screen and wonder what I intended to do first.

The hum in my abdomen is constant, a low vibration that rises when I move too quickly. I feel the remnants of last night’s dinner twist in ways that seem too deliberate, pulling at nerves I didn’t know were awake. I rub my hands over my belly. There is warmth, yes, but it vibrates with hesitation. My gut is speaking in rhythms that do not match my schedule.

By mid-morning, my energy dips, and the room seems to tilt imperceptibly, as if the walls are breathing along with me. I walk to the window. Light splits along the edge of the sill, fragments of white against grey. Outside, a bird hops in jerks, precise and certain. I envy that clarity.

When I speak, the words sometimes hesitate. Pauses appear in my sentences like microearthquakes, as if my nervous system cannot trust the signal it sends. My stomach rumbles again, subtly, yet insistently. I sense tension coiling in my spine, a ripple from gut to mind that refuses to be ignored.

I remember the meals I skipped last week: lunch at my desk, the smoothie I gulped between calls, the skipped water. I see now how the body accumulates its debts quietly, minute by minute, bite by bite. Each small infraction adds to the fog, each disregard a subtle misalignment between mind and tissue.

By afternoon, I feel the emotional tremors. Small irritations become sharp; patience thins. I snap at an email, then recoil, ashamed. The dysregulation is not moral; it is biological. A fatigue in the microbiome sends signals that cascade upward, shaping mood, attention, impulse. I am at the mercy of my own physiology.

Even walking through the corridor, I notice sensations that would have gone unnoticed before: the pressure in my ankles as I shift weight, the hum in my lower back, the unexpected flutter in my chest when I stand too quickly. I am aware now that the body keeps a ledger, one I have been ignoring.

By evening, I sit with a cup of warm water. I trace its condensation with a fingertip, noticing the cool slide of moisture, the contrast with the heat of the liquid. The act is trivial, yet grounding. My stomach murmurs softly — not urgent, not painful, just a reminder that listening is a choice, and action is possible.

I recall my mother’s voice, always insistent: “Eat slowly. Notice your body. It will tell you what it needs before it breaks.” At the time, I shrugged. Now, I hear it like a bell, echoing through gut and thought alike. I try to repay small debts: a meal at a table, water sipped deliberately, a pause to breathe between tasks.

The fog lifts slightly. Clarity is not sudden; it arrives in shifting textures — a stable thought here, a calm pulse there. I know it is temporary, a fragile truce between neglect and attention. But it is enough to keep me listening. Enough to remember that the body’s whispers are not trivial. They are early messages.

I write these notes as both confession and guide. Subhealth is not dramatic. It is subtle. It is the internal miscommunication between tissue and mind that, if ignored, expands. Micro-decays ripple into cognition, emotion, and endurance. Awareness — simple, deliberate, daily — can reclaim these early signals before they become crises.

–––

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

Subhealth often hides in endurance.

Early signs are subtle —
gut–brain axis disruption presents early as unexplained cognitive fog or lapses in attention, emotional volatility disproportionate to external events, subtle digestive irregularities: bloating, mild cramping, irregularity, and fluctuating energy that does not match rest or sleep patterns.

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

Listening sooner — through regulated light exposure, rest, micro-breaks, and attention to bodily signals — 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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