It starts quietly - dramatic symptoms, amazing pain, tickling in the throat, stubborn sniffing, slight pain knocking on the back of the head like memory. Mild illnesses do not fall into her life. It's the toes, subtle and soft, and you wonder if it's really there. You continued it and brushed it off. "That's nothing," you say. "I'm just tired. It's just the weather."
But your body slows down. You find it more difficult for you to focus. You yawn more. Your voice is wearing a rabbit and suddenly you know all the breath you take. Nevertheless, they move - because they can. They go to work, make calls, do business. They work, but not perfect power. Everything requires more effort. They start to get longer as long as it is gold as if it is healing.
What's strange about mild illness is how invisible it is. No one sees your feelings. They even looked perfectly clean - until they sat and spoke until they coughed until they admitted, "I'm not 100%." It's not so bad that it makes you sick, but not so good that it calls you well. They are hung in a gray zone somewhere between the fine and fade.
These minor illnesses can be a blessing of disguise. They force them to listen - realise how hard they are pushing, how long they went without interruption. The whispers in your body say what the spirit acknowledges: "I need to care. I need a break."
And you begin to treat yourself gently. Warm water becomes sacred. Be quietly sacred. All the improvements feel like a small victory - how to go back to Little. You sleep, you wake up, you heal. The mist begins to lift up.
And when it's finished, wear a gentle appreciation when you breathe easily again. Not only from health, but also for the memory that even small symptoms attract attention. A slight illness may be temporary, but the lesson it teaches may be durable.