A Video Call in a Hotel Room, and How We Ended Up Looking Into Japanese Tengsu Together

By the ninth day of that business trip, I could barely remember the last time I had actually sat down at a table for a proper meal. That's just how life is for an engineer—spending all day crouched in a client's server room, then coming back to the hotel at night, taking off my shoes, the TV on but not really watching, scrolling through my phone until I forgot what I was even looking for. The room was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor humming. I thought I was used to this rhythm by now, but that night, the loneliness suddenly became very concrete, like there was an invisible person sitting at the corner of the bed, not saying a word.

When my wife video-called, I was staring at the ceiling. She asked if I'd eaten, and I said yes—though it was really just a rice ball I'd grabbed at a convenience store that afternoon. She went quiet for a moment, then said I'm always like this on business trips, talking less and less, and after I come home it takes days before I can really talk again. I got a little angry, feeling like I was already exhausted working away from home and now I was being criticized on top of it. We went back and forth, voices getting louder, until she turned the camera away. I looked at the light on the ceiling and suddenly felt like a person trapped in a box.

After hanging up, I paced around the room several times. The AC was too cold, so I turned it up, then felt stuffy. That's when I realized we weren't really fighting about meals—it was about the changes in my body and mood over these past few years, things I didn't even dare face myself. After forty, my energy dropped, my sleep got lighter, and I couldn't get excited about much of anything. Those feelings are hard to talk about, and when you do, you worry it'll just sound like an excuse. I picked up my phone to text an apology, typed a few words, deleted them, went back and forth several times.

Eventually I called a second time. She picked up, said nothing, and neither did I. After a while, I told her that lately I'd been seeing all kinds of products online claiming to boost energy and vitality, and one name kept coming up—Japanese Tengsu. I said I wasn't sure what it was, or whether I even needed it, but every time I scrolled past it I'd pause, as if buying it could solve something. She didn't laugh at me. Instead she asked: So what is it you're actually trying to solve? Is it the fatigue, the bad sleep, or the fact that we talk less and less? I couldn't answer.

She said that instead of me sitting alone in a hotel room in the middle of the night searching randomly, I should write down what I found and, once back in Taiwan, we could go ask a professional together. She mentioned the pharmacy near our home—the pharmacist there is straightforward and willing to take time to explain things. I was a bit resistant at first, feeling embarrassed to ask someone about this kind of thing, but she said: Which is worse—feeling embarrassed, or taking something blindly? I thought about it, and she had a point. So we agreed that after I got back, we'd pick a weekend, list out our questions, and sit down together to talk.

That night we talked for a long time, until the phone was almost dead. She asked whether I was taking any other supplements besides this, whether I had regular checkups, and where the report from my last health exam was. I answered one by one and realized I was actually pretty vague about my own health. She said that before we go ask, we should organize all of this—don't show up empty-handed, and don't make decisions based only on what's said online. We even started a shared note and wrote down our questions one by one: What exactly is this product? Do we need to consult someone first? Could it interact with what I'm currently taking? What does the packaging say? Is the source clear?

The next day, while waiting for tests to finish at the client's site, I opened the note. I realized that among all the questions we'd listed, very few were actually about the product itself—most revolved around my daily habits, stress, and the way I communicate. That gave me a bit of relief, and I also found it a little funny: what I was anxious about in that hotel room at midnight wasn't just a name, but that feeling of wanting to grab onto something quickly. I told myself not to rush once I got home—ask what needs asking, get the checkups that need doing, and have the conversations with my wife that need having.

The weekend after I returned to Taiwan, we actually went to that pharmacy. After hearing our questions, the pharmacist didn't give us any dramatic answers—just reminded us that the classification of these products in Taiwan depends on the packaging label and source. Some are considered food, some aren't. Whether you can take them and how depends on your individual situation, and it's best to bring a list of what you're currently using when you ask, rather than guessing on your own. We went through every question in our note, and also scheduled a follow-up health checkup. When we walked out of the pharmacy, the sun was bright. My wife asked if I wanted to grab a bowl of noodles first. I said yes. That bowl of noodles didn't solve any health problem, but we were finally sitting at the same table again, talking properly.

Looking back on the whole thing, I think the most important part wasn't finding some shocking information—it was that I finally became willing to speak up about what was bothering me. A lot of people like me who travel for work long-term get used to swallowing their discomfort, and it's only when they're alone in a hotel room that loneliness magnifies it. If you're also looking into something similar, my experience is this: first ask yourself what you're actually trying to solve, write your questions down, bring what you're currently using to ask a professional, and don't make judgments based only on fragments you read online. As for my wife and me, we now set aside regular time to talk, instead of waiting until we're arguing to open up. That gives me more peace of mind than any supplement ever could.