Before Remarrying, I Wanted to Look Into Japanese Tengsu—Why I Started by Emptying That Drawer

As the wedding day gets closer, I keep waking up in the middle of the night. It's not the ceremony I'm worried about—it's myself. After my last relationship ended, I filed a lot of things under "I'm just tired," but this time is different. I want to get clear on where I stand before I begin, rather than waiting for problems to pile up beyond fixing.

Late one weekend night, I met up with my old friend A-Hong, who I've known for over fifteen years, for a late-night bite. He didn't ask much—he just listened until I'd said everything, then said one thing: "What you're most afraid of right now isn't your body. It's not knowing what you're afraid of." That sentence left me silent for a long time. He suggested I start by pulling every bottle and jar out of my drawer and making a list, because if I wasn't even sure what I'd been taking, rushing to find the next answer would only make things messier.

When I got home, I actually did it. The drawer held multivitamins, B-complex, zinc tablets, and two bottles of overseas supplements with labels too faded to read—one of which was long past its expiration date. I wrote each item into a spreadsheet: name, when I bought it, the ingredients listed on the packaging, and why I'd bought it in the first place. Halfway through, I realized a lot of it was stuff I'd ordered after seeing someone else recommend it, without ever asking myself if I needed it.

The next day I sent the list to A-Hong. He replied, "This is more honest than a physical exam report." We met up a second time, and this time he asked me: What have you been looking into lately? I said I'd been reading about Japanese Tengsu, wanting to know what it actually is, why so many people talk about it, and how it differs from ordinary supplements in terms of regulation. He didn't give me an answer—he just reminded me to keep "other people's experiences" and "verifiable information" separate when researching, not to read them mixed together.

So I started doing my homework. Step one was figuring out what category of product it falls under: a food, a health food, or something that requires evaluation by a professional. Step two was looking at the packaging labels and where it comes from, rather than just going by what people say online. Step three was compiling everything I'm currently using from the list onto a single page, planning to bring it in for a professional to look at. These three steps sound basic, but it was the first time I actually sat down and did them, instead of just worrying in my head.

I also noticed I'm prone to a trap: treating "people are talking about it" as "it's right for me." High discussion volume just means a topic is getting attention—it doesn't mean everyone's situation is the same. Most of the sharing you see online only mentions the outcome, not the background, and not what other adjustments were being made at the same time. That kind of content can be material for questions, but it can't be the basis for a judgment.

Later I booked a checkup and brought the list and my questions with me. I didn't ask for a yes-or-no answer on whether I could use it—instead I asked how to read the labels, how to describe my own situation, and what information I needed to fill in. On the way home, I actually felt relieved, because I'd finally shifted the question from "Is something wrong with me?" to "What do I need to know?"

Two weeks before the wedding, I reorganized that drawer list one more time—tossing the expired items, keeping what I still use, and writing down the questions to ask next time beside each one. When A-Hong saw it, he laughed and said it was more thoughtful than the wedding invitations. I know I don't have all the answers yet, but at least I'm no longer making decisions based on guesswork. Remarrying isn't about covering up the past—it's about walking in with a clearer version of myself, and I've finally started practicing that.