Cognitive Tax

I didn’t notice the first charge.

It arrived disguised as discretion — the small courtesy of postponing a decision that didn’t need to be made yet. I remember standing in a doorway, keys in my hand, weighing whether to turn back for a jacket. The air was neither cold nor warm enough to justify urgency. I stayed still long enough for the moment to pass. Later, outside, I told myself I had chosen efficiency. That I had saved time.

This is how the tax begins.
Not with overload, but with restraint.

Over months, decisions started to feel textured. Not heavy — textured. Each one carried a faint resistance, like lifting an object wrapped in damp cloth. I could still lift it. I just noticed the cloth.

What to eat.
Which email to answer first.
Whether to speak or let silence finish the sentence for me.

Nothing difficult. Nothing important. And yet, after each choice, something withdrew — a fraction of heat, a small internal hum that used to follow action. I began to rely on momentum instead. If I didn’t stop moving, I didn’t have to decide.

People praised my responsiveness. I replied quickly. I delivered. I adapted. On the surface, there was no evidence of cost. Underneath, my body had begun invoicing me quietly, line by line.

The strange part was how selective the fatigue became. I could work for hours. I could focus deeply on complex problems. But when faced with minor variations — choosing between two routes home, selecting a time for a meeting — my mind stalled. Not blank. Not confused. Just… resistant. As if each choice demanded collateral I no longer had.

I started defaulting.
Same meals.
Same shops.
Same answers.

Consistency masqueraded as discipline. In truth, it was conservation.

There were evenings when I would sit at the table long after finishing a task, not resting, not thinking — waiting. For what, I couldn’t say. My body felt intact, but my willingness had thinned. Even pleasure asked too many questions. I began avoiding things I enjoyed because enjoyment required decision: how long, how much, whether to stop.

Rest didn’t restore me. It irritated me. Stillness made the tax visible.

Sleep fractured into shallow segments, not from worry but from alertness. I woke with my jaw set, as if I had been holding something all night. My hands felt slightly delayed in the mornings — not weak, just negotiating. Coffee sharpened the edges but didn’t refill the centre.

There was no pain. That’s important.
Pain would have given me permission to stop.

Instead, there was a continuous, low-grade audit running beneath everything I did. Every choice passed through it. Every decision incurred a fee. I began unconsciously offloading agency onto systems, habits, other people. I asked for recommendations not because I wanted advice, but because I wanted relief.

Choice had become metabolically expensive.

The body noticed before the mind did. A subtle warmth would rise in my chest when asked to decide quickly. My breath shortened, not in panic, but in calculation. Muscles along the spine engaged prematurely, bracing for an effort that hadn’t yet occurred. Even language thinned. I spoke in affirmations and agreements, rarely in propositions.

“Yes” cost less than “I think.”
Silence cost less than dissent.

What I didn’t see at first was how this economy reshaped my days. Life narrowed around the decisions I could tolerate. I stopped initiating. I responded. I maintained. From the outside, nothing was wrong. From the inside, I was spending down a reserve I hadn’t known was finite.

The competence was intact. That was the trap.

I could still perform under pressure. Deadlines sharpened me. Urgency bypassed the tax entirely. It was the absence of urgency that exposed the deficit — the quiet moments where I had to choose without being pushed.

One afternoon, standing in a queue, I realised I was calculating whether stepping out of line to get something else was worth the internal expenditure. Not the time. The effort of deciding. The thought landed with an unexpected clarity: I was no longer choosing based on preference, but on cost.

That was the moment I understood what had been happening — not as diagnosis, not as insight, but as recognition.

The tax had been levied slowly enough to feel consensual.
I had paid it gladly, believing I was buying efficiency.

Now, even knowing this, I feel it sometimes — the hesitation before deciding, the subtle recoil. The body remembers the exchange rate. It still tries to minimise loss.

I haven’t collapsed. I haven’t burned out.
But I no longer mistake ease for laziness, or default for discipline.

Somewhere beneath the systems I built to cope, the body is still keeping score. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just recording.

The cost of choosing doesn’t announce itself when it begins.
It waits until you can no longer afford not to notice.

––

These stories aren’t rare.
They are counted by the organs that remember. Each strain, each skipped signal, each tremor ignored — all tallied in quiet vigilance.

Most decline begins in silence — a cough dismissed, a breath shortened, a muscle that tires without warning. The body speaks first in whispers, then in tremors, before it can speak no more.

This is not a story of cure.
It is a story of listening. Of noticing, attending, moving with care — is not weakness. It is survival. Daily attention and respect for the body’s signals are the acknowledgments your organs have been demanding. 

Listening is awareness, not diagnosis.

––– 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

These stories are educational and reflective. They are not medical diagnoses. Individuals experiencing symptoms or existing conditions should consult a qualified healthcare professional.

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. 



#CognitiveTax #DecisionFatigue #SubHealthStories #ExecutiveDepletion #InvisibleIllness #PreventBeforeBurnout #EmbodiedHealth