This extra chapter was cut from The Journey Back to keep the book focused. The physical paperback is $12.95 with free U.S. shipping. Any $17 PDF-and-audiobook bundle is a separate optional digital add-on, not the price of the paperback.
The first grocery trip after the hospital that I actually remember began with a little wagon.
My friend Alen had given it to me for the apartment. He called it an apartment wagon.
It is one of the greatest gifts he has ever given me.
The wagon was not expensive or dramatic. It was simply the right tool for the life I was living in Charlotte. My apartment was directly across Park Road from Harris Teeter, so I could pull the wagon across the street, buy groceries, and pull everything home without using the car.
That was exactly what I did.
I crossed the road with the wagon and a list.
The list mattered more than the wagon.
I had already decided what I was going to eat before I entered the store. There were going to be no surprises, at least not from me.
I did not want to wander through Harris Teeter hungry and negotiate with every package that caught my attention. I did not want the old part of my brain making the plan one aisle at a time.
I had made the decisions in advance.
The list was narrow.
Fish.
Greek yogurt.
Broccoli.
Okra.
Eggs.
Cheese.
Guacamole.
Seasonings that could make basic food taste like something I wanted to eat.
That was the beginning.
Alen deserves a great deal of credit for helping me create that list. We had talked before I went to the store. He helped me think through foods that could give me a simple foundation while I was trying to stabilize my life and follow the direction of my medical care.
He suggested broccoli and fish. I already knew I liked okra. We discussed guacamole because I am a sauce person.
That may sound like a small detail, but it was essential.
I like dipping food.
Give me a sauce or dip I enjoy, and whatever goes into it becomes much easier for me to eat. Alen helped me see that guacamole could serve that purpose. I could dip broccoli into it and turn a large bowl of vegetables into something satisfying.
Broccoli and guacamole became a combination I genuinely enjoyed.
I entered Harris Teeter believing I had a plan.
Then I encountered the food.
I walked to the frozen fish and grabbed a package, assuming most fish products were probably similar.
They were not.
Some of the frozen fish was breaded. Some contained more ingredients and carbohydrates than I expected. The word ‘fish’ on the front did not tell me what the entire product had become by the time it reached the freezer case.
Eventually, I found a two-pound or three-pound bag of skin-on salmon fillets.
Salmon also fit what I understood about eating more fish that contains omega-3 fatty acids.
Into the wagon it went.
I found low-fat Greek yogurt, including the Triple Zero yogurt that became one of my regular choices.
Into the wagon.
I loaded up on broccoli and okra, including frozen vegetables because they were convenient, lasted longer, and made it easy for me to prepare the large quantities I ate.
Into the wagon.
I bought eggs. A lot of eggs.
I picked up shredded cheese and other basic foods I believed I could build into repeatable meals.
I bought guacamole and Old Bay because I knew plain food did not have to remain plain. I already loved Old Bay on chicken, and I could use seasoning and dips to make the vegetables and protein feel more complete.
Then I picked up orange juice.
Orange juice carried the reputation of health. It was fruit. It was breakfast. It was something people had been told for decades belonged in a wholesome refrigerator.
I turned the container around and read the label.
Then I put it back.
There was no debate.
Whatever health story the front of the container told, the carbohydrate and sugar information on the back did not fit the plan I had made for myself.
The chips were different.
I went through what felt like every bag of potato chips in the store.
I read one label.
Then another.
Then another.
I stood there for so long, turning bags over and studying them, that I am sure somebody watching the security cameras thought I was trying to steal something.
I was not trying to steal chips.
I was hoping one bag would somehow tell me what I wanted to hear.
Maybe this one will be okay.
Maybe these ingredients will be different.
Maybe this serving will fit.
Maybe I can take one familiar piece of my old life home in the wagon.
No bag passed the test I had created.
I did not buy chips.
That may have been one of the first times the list protected me from the argument taking place in the aisle. I did not need to pretend I no longer wanted chips. I only needed to acknowledge that wanting them did not place them on the list.
I did talk myself into one compromise.
Whole-wheat English muffins.
I love English muffins, and I convinced myself the whole-wheat version would be okay.
I brought them home and ate them for approximately a week. Then I decided they still contained more carbohydrate than I wanted in the plan I was following, so I stopped buying them.
That was part of the learning process.
The first grocery list was not carved into stone.
I could choose something, watch how it fit into my routine and glucose response, and then make a different decision. Buying the English muffins was not proof that I had failed. It was information.
What amazes me now is how long that first trip took.
I know I spent at least an hour in Harris Teeter.
It may have been two hours.
If I am being honest, it may have been closer to three.
I read label after label after label.
This was not because I lacked the ability to understand them.
I knew how to read a nutrition label.
I had worked with Dr. Berg. I had helped grow his business substantially. I had spent years in the health market. I understood carbohydrates, added sugars, serving sizes, positioning, and the ways packaging could influence perception.
My problem was not literacy.
It was translation.
Knowing what the numbers on a label meant was different from knowing what my entire life should look like now.
How many carbohydrates did I want in a meal?
What did low-fat mean in the context of the fatty liver I had been told I had?
How should I balance blood sugar, triglycerides, blood pressure, weight, nutrition, medication, hunger, cost, and foods I could realistically prepare?
Could I trust something because it said whole wheat?
Was frozen fish still a healthy choice if it was breaded?
Was yogurt helping me, or did the carbohydrate content change the decision?
Was orange juice a fruit product or a rapidly consumed source of sugar?
The label could provide facts.
It could not build the plan for me.
My background helped. My previous experience with the South Beach Diet helped. I had followed South Beach years earlier and had seen it work for me. I had also spent periods eating keto, so reducing carbohydrates was not a completely foreign idea.
Brandy had taught me years earlier that many of the simplest foods tend to be found around the outside perimeter of the grocery store, where stores often place produce, meat, fish, eggs, and dairy.
That gave me a useful map, although I do not treat it as a perfect nutritional law. Frozen vegetables may be located away from the perimeter. Plenty of nutritious foods come in packages, and plenty of less useful choices can appear along the outer walls.
The point was not to worship the geography of Harris Teeter.
The point was to move toward food I could identify.
Fresh vegetables.
Frozen vegetables.
Fish.
Eggs.
Basic dairy products.
Fewer foods whose health story depended on language printed across the front of a box.
During that first trip, I stopped buying food primarily for how it tasted.
I bought it for the job I believed it needed to perform.
That did not mean taste disappeared forever. Within approximately two weeks, my preferences began changing. I became acclimated to the new routine. Then something even stranger happened.
I began craving vegetables.
As I record this, I expect to eat about twelve ounces of broccoli during the day and hope to eat another twelve ounces of okra that evening. That no longer feels like punishment.
It feels normal.
The foods that once would have looked like an obligation became foods my body and mind began expecting.
That change did not happen while I stood in the chip aisle.
In the chip aisle, I still wanted the chips.
The change happened because I left without them, loaded the wagon with the foods on the list, repeated those foods long enough for the unfamiliar to become routine, and discovered ways to make them satisfying.
The wagon that rolled home looked nothing like the groceries from the Walmart trip I could not remember.
The earlier groceries represented choices I had apparently made while my mind was already slipping away from me.
The Harris Teeter groceries represented choices I had made deliberately.
Salmon.
Broccoli.
Okra.
Eggs.
Greek yogurt.
Cheese.
Guacamole.
Seasoning.
Whole-wheat English muffins that would remain only temporarily.
No orange juice.
No chips.
The first cart was not perfect, but it was conscious.
That may be why the experience stayed with me.
I crossed Park Road with a narrow list and returned pulling proof that I could still make decisions on purpose.
Yet the trip also frightened me for reasons that extended beyond my own health.
If this took me hours, what would it feel like for the average person?
I had decades of experience in health marketing. I knew how to read labels. I understood many of the terms. I had tried structured eating plans before. I had a supportive wife. I had a friend like Alen helping me think through the list. I had enough time to stand in the store and compare package after package.
And I still felt overwhelmed.
What happens to the person who wakes up with a diabetes diagnosis and has none of that?
The person may understand every individual word the doctor says and still leave without knowing what to buy for dinner.
Carbohydrate.
Fiber.
Added sugar.
Serving size.
Glycemic response.
Protein.
Sodium.
Saturated fat.
The words may be written in English, but together they can feel like a new language.
That was the larger discovery waiting for me in Harris Teeter.
Information was everywhere.
Clarity was not.
I believed my numbers could improve because I could see actions available to me. I had prescribed medication, medical follow-up, prior knowledge, a written list, and people helping me.
But I could also see how easily a person without that support could become paralyzed, frightened, or convinced that the diagnosis had become a verdict on the rest of life.
Diabetes is not a death sentence, and changing food is not the only part of diabetes care. But a newly diagnosed person who does not understand the options may experience the diagnosis as if every aisle has closed around them.
I felt some of that fear even with everything I knew.
The trip gave me more than groceries.
It gave me empathy.
I began to understand why people needed more than a list of nutritional facts. They needed someone to translate the facts into a first breakfast, a first lunch, a first dinner, and a first grocery wagon they could actually pull home.
Alen had helped me create mine.
That little wagon carried salmon, vegetables, eggs, yogurt, guacamole, and a few choices I would later revise.
It also carried the beginning of an idea.
People did not merely need more health information.
They needed to know where to start.
Want to see how I connected the dots?
I wrote The Journey Back to share my experience and explain the Four Metabolic Loads framework. The physical paperback is $12.95 with free U.S. shipping.
→ See The Journey Back Paperback ($12.95)
Educational only, not medical advice. Charles’s experience was alongside physician-supervised care and prescribed medication. Individual results vary. Talk to your doctor.