I never imagined that something sitting quietly in my kitchen pantry could change how I walked, slept, or even looked at my own legs.But it happened—and not in some dramatic overnight miracle kind of way. It happened slowly, gently, like healing often does. And it started the day I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the legs staring back at me.I was fifty-two when the pain truly began. Not just a little tiredness at the end of the day, but a heavy, throbbing ache that wrapped around my calves like chains. I had varicose veins for years. I used to laugh them off. “Badges of motherhood,” I called them. After all, I’d carried three children, worked on my feet for decades, and never once complained.But deep down, I had grown tired of hiding behind long pants and avoiding mirrors that went below the knee.I remember clearly the day I realized something had to change. I was at my granddaughter’s dance recital. We sat on foldable chairs for two hours, and by the time I stood up, my legs were on fire. I limped toward the restroom, holding back tears. My daughter rushed over, asking if I was okay. I forced a smile. “Just the usual pain,”Continue reading…
