[It didn’t start with sugar.]
It started with fatigue. With blaming Karachi’s heat. With saying, “Thori si thakan toh hoti hai sab ko.”
And then — slowly — I began skipping stairs. I’d lose my breath after fajr. I’d forget things mid-sentence.
But when the diagnosis came, I didn’t cry. I did what many South Asian men do: I minimized it.
Took the pills. Skipped the follow-ups. Lied to myself.
The Invisible Enemy in the Mirror
In your 40s, you still feel invincible. You eat biryani like you’re 25. You drink chai like it’s medicine. Your body doesn’t scream at you — not yet.
And so, when the doctor said, “You’re prediabetic,” I shrugged. He handed me a printout. Told me to walk more. Maybe lose 5 kilos. It didn’t sound urgent.
Nobody said:
“This is a slow war, and you’re losing ground every single day.”
No one told me about nerve damage. Or the buzzing in my feet at night. Or how my blood pressure would climb in silence. Or the fear of going blind while reading to my grandson someday.
My Daughters Changed the Game
What the doctors didn’t say, my daughters did.
Fareha — the scientist, working at BioNTech in Germany — broke it down for me. She called it a metabolic storm. Showed me how my insulin resistance was wrecking my body from the inside out.
Maryam — the future doctor — softened the blow. She didn’t scold. She brought me a bowl of soaked methi seeds, told me about sleep cycles, taught me to look at food like fuel, not reward.
They didn’t treat me like a patient. They treated me like a man who could still take charge.
I Thought It Was Too Late. I Was Wrong.
At 60, I started lifting 2kg dumbbells.
At 61, I stopped drinking chai after 10pm.
At 62, I gave up white bread.
At 63, I walked my first 10,000-step day since the 1990s.
And here’s the secret: Your body wants to heal. It just needs you to get out of its way.
The meters, the medicine, the numbers — they all matter. But what matters more is the mindset.
You either act like you’re fighting for your life, or you’re slowly giving it away.
What I Now Tell Every 40-Year-Old Man I Meet
- Don’t ignore the warning signs. Fatigue is not “just age.”
- Refined carbs are poison in slow motion.
- Sleep fixes more than you think.
- Walking is not optional. It’s survival.
- The earlier you take control, the less control this disease will take from you.
I’m still not perfect. I still crave paratha on Sunday mornings. But now I pair it with eggs, fiber, a walk — and gratitude.
Not for the disease. But for the wake-up call.
If you’re in your 40s, this is your warning.
Don’t wait until your body screams. Listen now — while it’s whispering.