When Dr. Elwar told me my blood sugar was “borderline high,” I nodded like it was no big deal. But inside? I was rattled. More than I expected.
I’m not the overly emotional type, but that evening I sat in my car, hands clenched on the steering wheel, feeling a mix of shame and helplessness.
I’m only 43. I don’t smoke or drink. Sure, I’ve got a soft spot for bread and dessert—but I always figured I was doing “enough” to stay healthy.
Turns out, “enough” wasn’t cutting it anymore.
The next morning, I messaged my cousin Kael. He’s a certified nutritionist and way too excited about things like chia seeds. Still, if anyone could help me come up with a plan that didn’t involve daily medication, it was him.
“Let’s walk and talk,” he replied. “Grab some coffee and lace up your shoes. I’ll be there at 8.”
That first walk was rough—not physically, we just wandered the neighborhood—but emotionally, Kael was blunt.
“A borderline result is your body waving a red flag, Bren,” he said, sipping his black coffee like it was a superpower. “You can turn this around, but not if you keep eating the way you are and avoiding movement.”
I wanted to push back, argue that I wasn’t that unhealthy. But I didn’t. Because deep down, I knew he was right.
So we kept walking. Every morning. Just twenty minutes to start. We’d chat about everything—old memories, family drama, random stuff. It made it easier.
Gradually, I started tweaking other habits too.
I ditched soda. Traded sugary cereal for eggs and avocado toast. Looked up “low-glycemic fruits” and realized I liked berries more than bananas anyway.
It wasn’t flawless. I still slipped up here and there—especially during stressful days when a pastry or a pint of ice cream felt like the only comfort.
But something had shifted. I wasn’t just trying to avoid medicine anymore. I wanted to feel better. More me.
A few weeks in, my boss Arvin caught me in the breakroom.
“You look… lighter,” he said, then added quickly, “In a good way.”
I laughed. “I’ve been making some changes.”
He grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. “Keep it up. You’re glowing.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed that little boost. Sometimes, the smallest encouragement keeps you moving forward.
Then—life threw a curveball.
My mom called, panicked. My Aunt Lira had collapsed. She’d been hiding her Type 2 diabetes and not taking her meds.
She survived, but just barely. Seeing her in that hospital bed was like a wake-up call from the future. One I desperately wanted to avoid.