It started with my feet. Not with thirst or fatigue, or even blurry vision—just an odd feeling in my toes that I couldn’t quite explain. At first, it was subtle—a tingling sensation that came and went. I brushed it off as a temporary annoyance, maybe the result of sitting too long or wearing shoes that weren’t as comfortable as they should be.

But over the weeks, the tingling grew more persistent. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was unsettling. My toes felt numb sometimes, as if they weren’t quite connected to the rest of my body. I told myself it was nothing serious. After all, I was otherwise healthy, or so I thought.

Then one night, as I climbed into bed, I noticed that my feet felt icy cold. I reached down to rub them and was startled by how different they felt. It was like touching someone else’s skin—distant, unresponsive. That night, I couldn’t shake the sense that something wasn’t right.

The sensations didn’t go away. If anything, they became more pronounced. Sometimes my feet burned, a sharp contrast to the numbness I’d felt before. Other times, they felt heavy and dull, as though I were walking on blocks of wood. I found myself stumbling more often, tripping on rugs or misjudging steps. It was embarrassing, but more than that, it was worrying.

After weeks of this, I finally decided to see my doctor. I remember sitting in the waiting room, running through possible explanations in my mind: circulation problems, a pinched nerve, maybe something simple and easily fixed. Diabetes never crossed my mind.

When my doctor entered the room, I described the sensations in my feet—tingling, numbness, burning—and the other strange changes I’d noticed. He listened carefully, asked a few questions, and then began examining my feet. He tested my sensation with a small, filament-like tool, asking me to tell him when I felt a touch. To my surprise—and growing unease—I failed to feel many of the touches.

“We’re going to run some tests,” he said, his tone serious but calm. “These symptoms are often linked to nerve damage, and one of the most common causes is diabetes.”

The word hit me like a brick. Diabetes? It felt so sudden, so out of the blue. I didn’t feel sick—I just had an odd feeling in my feet. But as he explained the connection between high blood sugar and nerve damage, the pieces began to fall into place.

Blood tests confirmed it: Type 2 diabetes. My fasting blood sugar levels were dangerously high, and my A1C was well above the healthy range. I sat in the office, staring at the results, as my doctor explained what this meant. The nerve issues in my feet, he said, were likely a result of prolonged high blood sugar damaging the small nerves in my extremities. It was called peripheral neuropathy.

I barely heard the rest of what he said. My mind was racing. How had I not known? The tingling, the numbness—they were signs my body had been sending me, and I hadn’t understood them. I thought back to the times I’d felt unusually thirsty or fatigued, moments I’d chalked up to being busy or getting older. The symptoms had been there, but I hadn’t connected the dots.

Leaving the doctor’s office that day, I felt a mix of emotions. There was shock, of course—how had I missed something so serious? There was guilt, too, as I wondered if I could have prevented this by taking better care of myself. But most of all, there was fear. What did this mean for my future? Would the nerve damage get worse? Could I still do the things I loved?

I spent the next few days in a haze, trying to process the diagnosis. My doctor had given me a list of steps to take—medications to start, dietary changes to make, a glucose meter to track my blood sugar—but it all felt overwhelming. I didn’t know where to begin.

The first step was education. I threw myself into learning about diabetes, reading everything I could find about managing blood sugar and preventing complications. I quickly realized that while the diagnosis was serious, it wasn’t a death sentence. With the right changes, I could take control of my health.

I started testing my blood sugar every several hours, pricking my finger and recording the results. It wasn’t pleasant, but it gave me a clear picture of what was happening in my body. I also overhauled my diet, cutting back on processed foods and sugary snacks in favor of lean proteins, whole grains, and fresh vegetables. Exercise became a part of my routine, too—walking and finding ways to stay active without putting too much strain on my feet.

These changes weren’t easy, but they were necessary. And as the weeks went on, I began to notice improvements. My energy levels stabilized, and I felt more in control of my body. The sensations in my feet didn’t disappear, but I felt empowered knowing I was doing everything I could to slow the progression of the nerve damage.

Discovering diabetes through the symptoms in my feet was a wake-up call, one that forced me to reevaluate my health and my priorities. It was the beginning of a journey—one filled with challenges, but also with resilience and growth.

As I learned to manage my diabetes, I found ways to adapt to the changes in my body. Whether it was choosing supportive footwear, using a mobility scooter for longer distances, or simply listening to my body when it needed rest, each step taught me the importance of self-care and acceptance.

That day in the doctor’s office changed my life, but it didn’t define it. Instead, it set me on a path to reclaiming my health and rediscovering joy, even in the face of challenges.