“When I walked in for the results, I noticed the panic on the doctor’s face. He saw my name, looked at me strangely, and asked me to sit.”
I Was Already a Good Designer When I Joined
When I joined the agency, I wasn’t some rookie trying to find his feet.
I already had the fundamentals locked down—color theory, spacing, clean typography. I had an eye for detail. I’d even won “Most Creative” at my last job. I was good, but I was about to enter a world where good wasn’t enough.
Beast Mode Was the Culture
From the outside, it looked like hustle. On the inside, it was war. We weren’t just working overtime—we were living at the office. Weekends blurred into weekdays. Holidays came and went without notice. 9 a.m. on Monday to 5 a.m. on Wednesday? Normal. We were proud of it.
And honestly? It pushed my design skills to a whole new level. But it also awakened something else. Something I didn’t realize was creeping in: a dependency.
The Drinks Didn’t Start as a Problem
In an advertising agency, pressure is part of the job. And so is release. For us, release came in bottles.
After long days (and longer nights), drinks helped smooth the edges.
We’d gist, laugh, keep working while sipping. It felt like bonding. Like reward. It felt normal.
And I wasn’t sloppy with it either. I could hold my own—three bottles, and I’d still be sharp. No stumbles, no hangovers. The truth is, I was in good health, but I abused it.
The Wake-Up Call Came Quietly
It wasn’t some dramatic collapse. It was just… random.
I was visiting my parents in Oshodi and saw a free health checkup tent. I almost ignored it, but something nudged me to do it.
When I walked in for the results, I noticed the panic on the doctor’s face. He saw my name, looked at me strangely, and asked me to sit.
He asked about my drinking. My stress levels. My sleep habits. Then he said it without sugarcoating it:
“Your liver is in Stage 2 failure.”
He explained: there are four stages of liver damage. I was in Stage 2—Steatohepatitis (inflamed fatty liver), and it was already progressing to Stage 3.
At 28, I was staring down a future where my own body might not keep up with me.
The doctor didn’t mince words. “Liver transplants were expensive—and rare.”
It could be reversed, he said, but I had to be extremely careful. I was already approaching Stage 3.
Recovery Felt Like a Punishment
I started researching everything: YouTube videos, Reddit threads, local remedies. I was desperate.
Eventually, I saw a dietician who gave it to me straight:
Cut alcohol. Cut carbs. Cut everything that makes life feel easy.
No rice. No bread. No eba. No soft drinks. No cheat days.
It felt like punishment. But it was nothing compared to the fear of death.
I started running in the Ojodu area during COVID, guarding my meals like treasure, terrified of hidden carbs.
Skipping carbs was painful, but it felt almost laughable when I remembered what was at stake. I wasn’t trying to lose weight. I was trying to stay alive.
The tone of the doctor, and everything I’d read online, frightened me. I could handle pain, but the thought of my liver failing constantly scared me.
Redemption Did Come
It was during COVID, so distractions were few. It was just me, some soup with no swallow, and a constant stream of prayers.
I stopped drinking completely. I even stopped craving it. My body was in survival mode.
Months later, I returned for another test. The doctor pulled up my results, looked at me, and paused.
“Honestly… it’s like you never had liver issues at all.”
If not for the records, they wouldn’t have believed I ever had it.
That moment felt like grace.
If You Work Hard, Don’t Self-Destruct Harder
These days, I still drink—but one bottle is the limit, and it’s never a constant. I’ve got more important things to stay alive for now.
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