That Glycaemic Creep

I used to admire how little I needed.

Not in a dramatic way. Quietly.
The way you admire a room that stays tidy without effort, or a person who never asks for help.
I mistook absence for order.

Hunger arrived less and less often.
When it did, it came as a suggestion, not a demand — something I could postpone without consequence.
I learned which foods disappeared quickly, which left no echo behind the ribs.
I favoured the ones that let me continue uninterrupted.

People said I was disciplined.
I let them.

What I didn’t say was that eating had begun to feel like a disruption —
a heaviness, a blur, a soft resistance that slowed my thinking just enough to irritate me.
I preferred the state just before nourishment.
Clear. Edged. Slightly unreal.

Over time, the edges sharpened.
Hands trembled faintly if I waited too long, but the sensation felt distant, almost theoretical.
My thoughts stayed fast while my body lagged a half-step behind, as if buffering.

There were moments — standing in kitchens, in shops, in the quiet between tasks —
where choice itself felt exhausting.
I’d open cupboards and stare, not because nothing appealed, but because everything felt like commitment.
So I closed them again.

I told myself I was busy.
Then efficient.
Then simply not hungry.

The narrowing happened slowly enough to feel intentional.
Sleep became lighter, more vigilant.
Warmth pooled oddly in the chest, while the limbs cooled.
I stopped trusting ease — whenever I felt relaxed, I suspected I’d mismanaged something.

I learned to operate on partial fuel.
To speak while my body whispered.
To move through days as if slightly unplugged, still functional, but dimmed.

The strangest part was the competence.
I performed well.
I delivered.
I stayed sharp.

That was the bargain:
my body would carry the deficit quietly,
and I would keep mistaking silence for stability.

What I didn’t notice — or chose not to —
was how often I deferred fullness,
how balance began to feel excessive,
how nourishment started to resemble surrender.

Even now, knowing what I know,
there are days I hesitate before eating, not out of neglect, but preference.
The body has learned this economy well.

It hasn’t failed me.
It has adapted.

And adaptation, when rewarded long enough, becomes belief.

––

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. 

#SilentGlycaemicCreep #SubHealthStories #MetabolicDrift #InvisibleIllness #PreventBeforeChronic #EmbodiedHealth #HealthWithoutSymptoms