Journeys and Star Gazing

At 73, I’ve kept Type 2 diabetes in remission for over three years—through walking, simple food, and resistance exercises at home.

Sometimes I wonder why more people don’t walk the way I do. Not just physically — but deliberately, with purpose, with rhythm. Not for medals, not for watches or metrics, but to come home to themselves. To turn toward health, rather than away from it. To heal.

You’d think the instinct to live would be enough. You’d think the desire to feel good, move well, and age gracefully would drive people to act. But often, it doesn’t.

I think I know part of the reason why.

We live in a time where wellness has been commercialised — sold back to us by fitness influencers, gym chains, and self-styled “health gurus.”

There’s always a hack, a supplement, a challenge, a subscription. And behind it all, almost always, is the same tired motive: money.

The industry promises shortcuts, biohacks, six-packs, detoxes. But very little of it teaches people how to truly listen to their own body. Very little of it says: Walk the same path every day, in silence, and see what grows.

I didn’t pay for a program.

I didn’t join a gym.

I didn’t buy expensive equipment.

I walked. I changed how I ate — simplified my meals, removed the refined sugar and processed foods, honoured the basics.

And I began doing resistance exercises at home using my own bodyweight: push-ups, squats, step-ups, planks, curls with light dumbbells.

No machines. No mirrors. Just daily practice, spread across the hours of an ordinary day.

Over time, my blood glucose dropped, my weight settled, and my resting heart rate sank—to the level of an endurance athlete’s.

Not because I’m extraordinary. But because I showed up for my own life, one quiet effort at a time.

What astounds me is that this happened to me.

That at 73, after a lifetime of ordinary habits and imperfections — after years of smoking, struggle, and neglect — my body responded with such grace. That it could still heal. Still strengthen. Still find its rhythm.

I never expected this.

Discipline isn’t punishment.

Routine isn’t boring. And consistency isn’t obsession. They’re the quiet architecture of a life well lived.

I wish I could bottle what I’ve found and pass it around like water. But the truth is, you have to taste it yourself.

You have to take the first step — not for likes, not for a fitness tracker, not for anyone else — but because something in you remembers: you are still alive.

And you are still free to begin.

A note from the heart:
I share this not to suggest that my path is a cure-all. I know that remission isn’t possible for everyone, even with great effort. Our bodies are different. Our lives are different. What worked for me may not work for someone else — or not in the same way, or not at the same time. I honour those who are doing their best, every day, under circumstances we can’t always see. This is just my story — and I share it in case it offers hope, not judgment.

Postscript

What still astounds me is how far the body can come back when you listen to it.

At 73, my VO₂ max is estimated at 46–50, and my resting heart rate stays between 48–52 bpm — on par with fit men in their 30s to early 40s.

No gym. No guru. No plan.

Just walking.
Simple food.
Daily resistance.

That’s what worked.

📷 For images from my daily walks—the place where this journey unfolded:
https://dodona777.com/photos-from-a-river-bank-a-flood-plain/