## Modern Hearing top 10

Approximately 210 active results. Cards remain in Meta's descending total-impressions order.

#1 by impressions Strong

### Library ID 844285298330848

Started
  Jun 5, 2026
Running
  36 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Clear price-led offer, product visible, and easy to scan on mobile.

Headline

Headline not exposed by Meta for this grouped creative

Body copy
View full text 4,069 characters

Everything you're missing costs 34 cents a day to get back. Here's the math.

Let me show you some numbers.

Average cost of a Starbucks coffee: $5.50

Average cost of a beer: $7.00

Average cost of a newspaper: $3.00

Average cost of a bag of chips: $1.50

Average cost of hearing your grandchildren clearly: 34¢

That last one stops people. Every time.

Thirty-four cents per day. That's what Modern Hearing hearing aids cost over two years (the guaranteed lifespan).

$249, divided by 730 days. Thirty-four point one cents per day, to be precise. But let's call it 34¢ because I'm not precious about fractions.

For 34¢ a day, you get:

Your wife's voice — without asking her to repeat herself three times.

Your grandchildren's stories — without nodding along and guessing.

The TV at volume 18 instead of 48 — without your neighbors filing a noise complaint.

Phone calls that you don't dread — without pretending the line is bad.

Restaurant conversations you can follow — without sitting there smiling and hoping nobody asks you a direct question.

Thirty-four cents.

Now let me show you what the industry thinks you should pay for those same things.

Miracle-Ear: $4,995. That's $6.84 per day over two years.

Costco: $1,499. That's $2.05 per day.

HearingLife: $4,200+. That's $5.75 per day.

For the same core technology.

Same Knowles receivers. Same processing chips. Same fundamental components.

Manufacturing cost: approximately $200.

So here's the real question: what are you paying that extra $4,746 for?

I'll tell you.

You're paying for a clinic on Main Street.

A salesperson on commission. A marketing department. A head office. Shareholders on Wall Street.

You're not paying for better hearing. You're paying for someone else's business model.

Modern Hearing doesn't have clinics. We have a warehouse in New Jersey.

Modern Hearing doesn't have salespeople on commission. We have a support team on salary.

Modern Hearing doesn't have shareholders demanding dividends. We have customers who want to hear.

That's why it's $249.

Not because it's worse. Because we've removed everything you shouldn't be paying for.

My dad was the first person to call this "the 34-cent solution."

He'd been quoted $4,995 at Miracle-Ear. Refused to pay it. Spent two more years struggling.

When he finally tried Modern Hearing, he worked out the daily cost immediately. Engineers do that.

"Thirty-four cents," he said. "I spend more than that on a stick of gum."

Then he shook his head. "Two years I wasted. Over money. While the solution cost less than a gum stick a day."

He's right. And that's what I want you to understand.

The cost of NOT hearing is enormous:

Relationships that strain because communication becomes exhausting.

Social activities you stop going to because you can't follow conversations.

Grandchildren who think you're ignoring them.

Cognitive decline — Johns Hopkins research links untreated hearing loss to dementia.

Years of your life spent pretending, struggling, and missing out.

The cost of hearing? Thirty-four cents.

I've served over 12,000 customers now. The regret I hear most often isn't "I wish I hadn't bought them."

It's "I wish I'd bought them sooner."

Every single time. Without exception.

"Why did I wait three years? For what?"

"I could have heard my grandson's first words. I missed them for nothing."

"My wife says she's got me back. What was I doing before?"

Don't be the person who waits. Don't be the person who adds up the cost of hearing and decides it's too much, while spending more than that on coffee without a second thought.

Try Modern Hearing for 45 days at home.

But I'll bet you 34¢ they change your life.

With respect,

David Taylor

Founder, Modern Hearing

P.S. One more number for you. Medicare doesn't cover hearing aids. Not a dime. Not now. Not ever. So every day you wait is a day you're choosing not to hear. At 34¢ per day, Modern Hearing costs less than a single Starbucks per week. The question isn't whether you can afford 34¢ a day. It's whether you can afford not to.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#2 by impressions Good

### Library ID 971299965523700

Started
  May 15, 2026
Running
  57 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

High urgency and strong contrast, though visually aggressive and copy-heavy.

Headline

Headline not exposed by Meta for this grouped creative

Body copy
View full text 1,162 characters

Which would you choose?

OPTION A: Pay $5,000+ at the clinic - Medicare won't cover a cent

OPTION B: Sit through pushy clinic sales pitches and "premium package" upsells

OPTION C: Get premium tech for $249, delivered in days

12,000+ smart customers chose Option C - Modern Hearing

"I compared my Modern Hearing aids to my neighbor's $6,500 clinic ones. Honestly couldn't tell the difference in sound quality." - Sarah M.

What you get with Modern Hearing:

✅ Same advanced features as expensive clinics

✅ 45-day "hear it or don't pay" guarantee

✅ FREE 1-year full replacement warranty

✅ 2–5 days delivery to your door

✅ FREE insured shipping

✅ No pressure, no hidden costs

✅ US-based customer support

✅ 16-channel digital noise reduction

✅ Rechargeable (30+ hours per charge)

✅ Invisible, comfortable design

The difference? We sell direct - no clinic markups.

Same technology, same FDA clearance, less hassle, $4,700+ saved.

Better Hearing Month: 50% OFF

Regular $499 → Today only $249

Join 12,000+ smart customers - try Modern Hearing today.

45 day trial at home. 1-year warranty. Lifetime support.

Join the revolution in affordable hearing.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#3 by impressions Good

### Library ID 1488888065798972

Started
  May 20, 2026
Running
  52 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Offer and product dominate; credible direct-response structure with some clutter.

Headline

Same tech, less cost.

Body copy
View full text 1,162 characters

Which would you choose?

OPTION A: Pay $5,000+ at the clinic - Medicare won't cover a cent

OPTION B: Sit through pushy clinic sales pitches and "premium package" upsells

OPTION C: Get premium tech for $249, delivered in days

12,000+ smart customers chose Option C - Modern Hearing

"I compared my Modern Hearing aids to my neighbor's $6,500 clinic ones. Honestly couldn't tell the difference in sound quality." - Sarah M.

What you get with Modern Hearing:

✅ Same advanced features as expensive clinics

✅ 45-day "hear it or don't pay" guarantee

✅ FREE 1-year full replacement warranty

✅ 2–5 days delivery to your door

✅ FREE insured shipping

✅ No pressure, no hidden costs

✅ US-based customer support

✅ 16-channel digital noise reduction

✅ Rechargeable (30+ hours per charge)

✅ Invisible, comfortable design

The difference? We sell direct - no clinic markups.

Same technology, same FDA clearance, less hassle, $4,700+ saved.

Better Hearing Month: 50% OFF

Regular $499 → Today only $249

Join 12,000+ smart customers - try Modern Hearing today.

45 day trial at home. 1-year warranty. Lifetime support.

Join the revolution in affordable hearing.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#4 by impressions Good

### Library ID 733524456484115

Started
  May 18, 2026
Running
  54 days
Media
  video
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Video adds product movement and explanation; opening frame is less benefit-led.

Headline

Headline not exposed by Meta for this grouped creative

Body copy
View full text 1,162 characters

Which would you choose?

OPTION A: Pay $5,000+ at the clinic - Medicare won't cover a cent

OPTION B: Sit through pushy clinic sales pitches and "premium package" upsells

OPTION C: Get premium tech for $249, delivered in days

12,000+ smart customers chose Option C - Modern Hearing

"I compared my Modern Hearing aids to my neighbor's $6,500 clinic ones. Honestly couldn't tell the difference in sound quality." - Sarah M.

What you get with Modern Hearing:

✅ Same advanced features as expensive clinics

✅ 45-day "hear it or don't pay" guarantee

✅ FREE 1-year full replacement warranty

✅ 2–5 days delivery to your door

✅ FREE insured shipping

✅ No pressure, no hidden costs

✅ US-based customer support

✅ 16-channel digital noise reduction

✅ Rechargeable (30+ hours per charge)

✅ Invisible, comfortable design

The difference? We sell direct - no clinic markups.

Same technology, same FDA clearance, less hassle, $4,700+ saved.

Better Hearing Month: 50% OFF

Regular $499 → Today only $249

Join 12,000+ smart customers - try Modern Hearing today.

45 day trial at home. 1-year warranty. Lifetime support.

Join the revolution in affordable hearing.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#5 by impressions Strong

### Library ID 1309098274697358

Started
  Jun 14, 2026
Running
  27 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Clean hierarchy, visible product, concrete trial terms, and high mobile legibility.

Headline

Same Tech, 95% Less Cost

Body copy
View full text 4,069 characters

Everything you're missing costs 34 cents a day to get back. Here's the math.

Let me show you some numbers.

Average cost of a Starbucks coffee: $5.50

Average cost of a beer: $7.00

Average cost of a newspaper: $3.00

Average cost of a bag of chips: $1.50

Average cost of hearing your grandchildren clearly: 34¢

That last one stops people. Every time.

Thirty-four cents per day. That's what Modern Hearing hearing aids cost over two years (the guaranteed lifespan).

$249, divided by 730 days. Thirty-four point one cents per day, to be precise. But let's call it 34¢ because I'm not precious about fractions.

For 34¢ a day, you get:

Your wife's voice — without asking her to repeat herself three times.

Your grandchildren's stories — without nodding along and guessing.

The TV at volume 18 instead of 48 — without your neighbors filing a noise complaint.

Phone calls that you don't dread — without pretending the line is bad.

Restaurant conversations you can follow — without sitting there smiling and hoping nobody asks you a direct question.

Thirty-four cents.

Now let me show you what the industry thinks you should pay for those same things.

Miracle-Ear: $4,995. That's $6.84 per day over two years.

Costco: $1,499. That's $2.05 per day.

HearingLife: $4,200+. That's $5.75 per day.

For the same core technology.

Same Knowles receivers. Same processing chips. Same fundamental components.

Manufacturing cost: approximately $200.

So here's the real question: what are you paying that extra $4,746 for?

I'll tell you.

You're paying for a clinic on Main Street.

A salesperson on commission. A marketing department. A head office. Shareholders on Wall Street.

You're not paying for better hearing. You're paying for someone else's business model.

Modern Hearing doesn't have clinics. We have a warehouse in New Jersey.

Modern Hearing doesn't have salespeople on commission. We have a support team on salary.

Modern Hearing doesn't have shareholders demanding dividends. We have customers who want to hear.

That's why it's $249.

Not because it's worse. Because we've removed everything you shouldn't be paying for.

My dad was the first person to call this "the 34-cent solution."

He'd been quoted $4,995 at Miracle-Ear. Refused to pay it. Spent two more years struggling.

When he finally tried Modern Hearing, he worked out the daily cost immediately. Engineers do that.

"Thirty-four cents," he said. "I spend more than that on a stick of gum."

Then he shook his head. "Two years I wasted. Over money. While the solution cost less than a gum stick a day."

He's right. And that's what I want you to understand.

The cost of NOT hearing is enormous:

Relationships that strain because communication becomes exhausting.

Social activities you stop going to because you can't follow conversations.

Grandchildren who think you're ignoring them.

Cognitive decline — Johns Hopkins research links untreated hearing loss to dementia.

Years of your life spent pretending, struggling, and missing out.

The cost of hearing? Thirty-four cents.

I've served over 12,000 customers now. The regret I hear most often isn't "I wish I hadn't bought them."

It's "I wish I'd bought them sooner."

Every single time. Without exception.

"Why did I wait three years? For what?"

"I could have heard my grandson's first words. I missed them for nothing."

"My wife says she's got me back. What was I doing before?"

Don't be the person who waits. Don't be the person who adds up the cost of hearing and decides it's too much, while spending more than that on coffee without a second thought.

Try Modern Hearing for 45 days at home.

But I'll bet you 34¢ they change your life.

With respect,

David Taylor

Founder, Modern Hearing

P.S. One more number for you. Medicare doesn't cover hearing aids. Not a dime. Not now. Not ever. So every day you wait is a day you're choosing not to hear. At 34¢ per day, Modern Hearing costs less than a single Starbucks per week. The question isn't whether you can afford 34¢ a day. It's whether you can afford not to.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#6 by impressions Good

### Library ID 2197999837700582

Started
  May 15, 2026
Running
  57 days
Media
  video
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Product-and-packaging demo builds trust; less immediate than the price-led statics.

Headline

Same tech, less cost.

Body copy
View full text 1,162 characters

Which would you choose?

OPTION A: Pay $5,000+ at the clinic - Medicare won't cover a cent

OPTION B: Sit through pushy clinic sales pitches and "premium package" upsells

OPTION C: Get premium tech for $249, delivered in days

12,000+ smart customers chose Option C - Modern Hearing

"I compared my Modern Hearing aids to my neighbor's $6,500 clinic ones. Honestly couldn't tell the difference in sound quality." - Sarah M.

What you get with Modern Hearing:

✅ Same advanced features as expensive clinics

✅ 45-day "hear it or don't pay" guarantee

✅ FREE 1-year full replacement warranty

✅ 2–5 days delivery to your door

✅ FREE insured shipping

✅ No pressure, no hidden costs

✅ US-based customer support

✅ 16-channel digital noise reduction

✅ Rechargeable (30+ hours per charge)

✅ Invisible, comfortable design

The difference? We sell direct - no clinic markups.

Same technology, same FDA clearance, less hassle, $4,700+ saved.

Better Hearing Month: 50% OFF

Regular $499 → Today only $249

Join 12,000+ smart customers - try Modern Hearing today.

45 day trial at home. 1-year warranty. Lifetime support.

Join the revolution in affordable hearing.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#7 by impressions Strong

### Library ID 1437953068372331

Started
  May 26, 2026
Running
  46 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Proven repeat of the concise price/benefit composition used by rank 1.

Headline

Same Tech, 95% Less Cost

Body copy
View full text 4,069 characters

Everything you're missing costs 34 cents a day to get back. Here's the math.

Let me show you some numbers.

Average cost of a Starbucks coffee: $5.50

Average cost of a beer: $7.00

Average cost of a newspaper: $3.00

Average cost of a bag of chips: $1.50

Average cost of hearing your grandchildren clearly: 34¢

That last one stops people. Every time.

Thirty-four cents per day. That's what Modern Hearing hearing aids cost over two years (the guaranteed lifespan).

$249, divided by 730 days. Thirty-four point one cents per day, to be precise. But let's call it 34¢ because I'm not precious about fractions.

For 34¢ a day, you get:

Your wife's voice — without asking her to repeat herself three times.

Your grandchildren's stories — without nodding along and guessing.

The TV at volume 18 instead of 48 — without your neighbors filing a noise complaint.

Phone calls that you don't dread — without pretending the line is bad.

Restaurant conversations you can follow — without sitting there smiling and hoping nobody asks you a direct question.

Thirty-four cents.

Now let me show you what the industry thinks you should pay for those same things.

Miracle-Ear: $4,995. That's $6.84 per day over two years.

Costco: $1,499. That's $2.05 per day.

HearingLife: $4,200+. That's $5.75 per day.

For the same core technology.

Same Knowles receivers. Same processing chips. Same fundamental components.

Manufacturing cost: approximately $200.

So here's the real question: what are you paying that extra $4,746 for?

I'll tell you.

You're paying for a clinic on Main Street.

A salesperson on commission. A marketing department. A head office. Shareholders on Wall Street.

You're not paying for better hearing. You're paying for someone else's business model.

Modern Hearing doesn't have clinics. We have a warehouse in New Jersey.

Modern Hearing doesn't have salespeople on commission. We have a support team on salary.

Modern Hearing doesn't have shareholders demanding dividends. We have customers who want to hear.

That's why it's $249.

Not because it's worse. Because we've removed everything you shouldn't be paying for.

My dad was the first person to call this "the 34-cent solution."

He'd been quoted $4,995 at Miracle-Ear. Refused to pay it. Spent two more years struggling.

When he finally tried Modern Hearing, he worked out the daily cost immediately. Engineers do that.

"Thirty-four cents," he said. "I spend more than that on a stick of gum."

Then he shook his head. "Two years I wasted. Over money. While the solution cost less than a gum stick a day."

He's right. And that's what I want you to understand.

The cost of NOT hearing is enormous:

Relationships that strain because communication becomes exhausting.

Social activities you stop going to because you can't follow conversations.

Grandchildren who think you're ignoring them.

Cognitive decline — Johns Hopkins research links untreated hearing loss to dementia.

Years of your life spent pretending, struggling, and missing out.

The cost of hearing? Thirty-four cents.

I've served over 12,000 customers now. The regret I hear most often isn't "I wish I hadn't bought them."

It's "I wish I'd bought them sooner."

Every single time. Without exception.

"Why did I wait three years? For what?"

"I could have heard my grandson's first words. I missed them for nothing."

"My wife says she's got me back. What was I doing before?"

Don't be the person who waits. Don't be the person who adds up the cost of hearing and decides it's too much, while spending more than that on coffee without a second thought.

Try Modern Hearing for 45 days at home.

But I'll bet you 34¢ they change your life.

With respect,

David Taylor

Founder, Modern Hearing

P.S. One more number for you. Medicare doesn't cover hearing aids. Not a dime. Not now. Not ever. So every day you wait is a day you're choosing not to hear. At 34¢ per day, Modern Hearing costs less than a single Starbucks per week. The question isn't whether you can afford 34¢ a day. It's whether you can afford not to.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#8 by impressions Strong

### Library ID 1710340250312941

Started
  May 17, 2026
Running
  55 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Bright offer treatment and compact benefit stack make the message immediate.

Headline

Same tech, less cost.

Body copy
View full text 1,162 characters

Which would you choose?

OPTION A: Pay $5,000+ at the clinic - Medicare won't cover a cent

OPTION B: Sit through pushy clinic sales pitches and "premium package" upsells

OPTION C: Get premium tech for $249, delivered in days

12,000+ smart customers chose Option C - Modern Hearing

"I compared my Modern Hearing aids to my neighbor's $6,500 clinic ones. Honestly couldn't tell the difference in sound quality." - Sarah M.

What you get with Modern Hearing:

✅ Same advanced features as expensive clinics

✅ 45-day "hear it or don't pay" guarantee

✅ FREE 1-year full replacement warranty

✅ 2–5 days delivery to your door

✅ FREE insured shipping

✅ No pressure, no hidden costs

✅ US-based customer support

✅ 16-channel digital noise reduction

✅ Rechargeable (30+ hours per charge)

✅ Invisible, comfortable design

The difference? We sell direct - no clinic markups.

Same technology, same FDA clearance, less hassle, $4,700+ saved.

Better Hearing Month: 50% OFF

Regular $499 → Today only $249

Join 12,000+ smart customers - try Modern Hearing today.

45 day trial at home. 1-year warranty. Lifetime support.

Join the revolution in affordable hearing.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#9 by impressions Strong Longest-running

### Library ID 2217293942377474

Started
  May 8, 2026
Running
  64 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Longest-running top-ten placement and a very clear offer/product pairing.

Headline

Same Tech, 95% Less Cost

Body copy
View full text 4,069 characters

Everything you're missing costs 34 cents a day to get back. Here's the math.

Let me show you some numbers.

Average cost of a Starbucks coffee: $5.50

Average cost of a beer: $7.00

Average cost of a newspaper: $3.00

Average cost of a bag of chips: $1.50

Average cost of hearing your grandchildren clearly: 34¢

That last one stops people. Every time.

Thirty-four cents per day. That's what Modern Hearing hearing aids cost over two years (the guaranteed lifespan).

$249, divided by 730 days. Thirty-four point one cents per day, to be precise. But let's call it 34¢ because I'm not precious about fractions.

For 34¢ a day, you get:

Your wife's voice — without asking her to repeat herself three times.

Your grandchildren's stories — without nodding along and guessing.

The TV at volume 18 instead of 48 — without your neighbors filing a noise complaint.

Phone calls that you don't dread — without pretending the line is bad.

Restaurant conversations you can follow — without sitting there smiling and hoping nobody asks you a direct question.

Thirty-four cents.

Now let me show you what the industry thinks you should pay for those same things.

Miracle-Ear: $4,995. That's $6.84 per day over two years.

Costco: $1,499. That's $2.05 per day.

HearingLife: $4,200+. That's $5.75 per day.

For the same core technology.

Same Knowles receivers. Same processing chips. Same fundamental components.

Manufacturing cost: approximately $200.

So here's the real question: what are you paying that extra $4,746 for?

I'll tell you.

You're paying for a clinic on Main Street.

A salesperson on commission. A marketing department. A head office. Shareholders on Wall Street.

You're not paying for better hearing. You're paying for someone else's business model.

Modern Hearing doesn't have clinics. We have a warehouse in New Jersey.

Modern Hearing doesn't have salespeople on commission. We have a support team on salary.

Modern Hearing doesn't have shareholders demanding dividends. We have customers who want to hear.

That's why it's $249.

Not because it's worse. Because we've removed everything you shouldn't be paying for.

My dad was the first person to call this "the 34-cent solution."

He'd been quoted $4,995 at Miracle-Ear. Refused to pay it. Spent two more years struggling.

When he finally tried Modern Hearing, he worked out the daily cost immediately. Engineers do that.

"Thirty-four cents," he said. "I spend more than that on a stick of gum."

Then he shook his head. "Two years I wasted. Over money. While the solution cost less than a gum stick a day."

He's right. And that's what I want you to understand.

The cost of NOT hearing is enormous:

Relationships that strain because communication becomes exhausting.

Social activities you stop going to because you can't follow conversations.

Grandchildren who think you're ignoring them.

Cognitive decline — Johns Hopkins research links untreated hearing loss to dementia.

Years of your life spent pretending, struggling, and missing out.

The cost of hearing? Thirty-four cents.

I've served over 12,000 customers now. The regret I hear most often isn't "I wish I hadn't bought them."

It's "I wish I'd bought them sooner."

Every single time. Without exception.

"Why did I wait three years? For what?"

"I could have heard my grandson's first words. I missed them for nothing."

"My wife says she's got me back. What was I doing before?"

Don't be the person who waits. Don't be the person who adds up the cost of hearing and decides it's too much, while spending more than that on coffee without a second thought.

Try Modern Hearing for 45 days at home.

But I'll bet you 34¢ they change your life.

With respect,

David Taylor

Founder, Modern Hearing

P.S. One more number for you. Medicare doesn't cover hearing aids. Not a dime. Not now. Not ever. So every day you wait is a day you're choosing not to hear. At 34¢ per day, Modern Hearing costs less than a single Starbucks per week. The question isn't whether you can afford 34¢ a day. It's whether you can afford not to.

Download Download copy Original Open ad
#10 by impressions Strong

### Library ID 1867964707214088

Started
  Jun 5, 2026
Running
  36 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Clinic-versus-product comparison makes the value gap instantly understandable.

Headline

Same Tech, 95% Less Cost

Body copy
View full text 4,069 characters

Everything you're missing costs 34 cents a day to get back. Here's the math.

Let me show you some numbers.

Average cost of a Starbucks coffee: $5.50

Average cost of a beer: $7.00

Average cost of a newspaper: $3.00

Average cost of a bag of chips: $1.50

Average cost of hearing your grandchildren clearly: 34¢

That last one stops people. Every time.

Thirty-four cents per day. That's what Modern Hearing hearing aids cost over two years (the guaranteed lifespan).

$249, divided by 730 days. Thirty-four point one cents per day, to be precise. But let's call it 34¢ because I'm not precious about fractions.

For 34¢ a day, you get:

Your wife's voice — without asking her to repeat herself three times.

Your grandchildren's stories — without nodding along and guessing.

The TV at volume 18 instead of 48 — without your neighbors filing a noise complaint.

Phone calls that you don't dread — without pretending the line is bad.

Restaurant conversations you can follow — without sitting there smiling and hoping nobody asks you a direct question.

Thirty-four cents.

Now let me show you what the industry thinks you should pay for those same things.

Miracle-Ear: $4,995. That's $6.84 per day over two years.

Costco: $1,499. That's $2.05 per day.

HearingLife: $4,200+. That's $5.75 per day.

For the same core technology.

Same Knowles receivers. Same processing chips. Same fundamental components.

Manufacturing cost: approximately $200.

So here's the real question: what are you paying that extra $4,746 for?

I'll tell you.

You're paying for a clinic on Main Street.

A salesperson on commission. A marketing department. A head office. Shareholders on Wall Street.

You're not paying for better hearing. You're paying for someone else's business model.

Modern Hearing doesn't have clinics. We have a warehouse in New Jersey.

Modern Hearing doesn't have salespeople on commission. We have a support team on salary.

Modern Hearing doesn't have shareholders demanding dividends. We have customers who want to hear.

That's why it's $249.

Not because it's worse. Because we've removed everything you shouldn't be paying for.

My dad was the first person to call this "the 34-cent solution."

He'd been quoted $4,995 at Miracle-Ear. Refused to pay it. Spent two more years struggling.

When he finally tried Modern Hearing, he worked out the daily cost immediately. Engineers do that.

"Thirty-four cents," he said. "I spend more than that on a stick of gum."

Then he shook his head. "Two years I wasted. Over money. While the solution cost less than a gum stick a day."

He's right. And that's what I want you to understand.

The cost of NOT hearing is enormous:

Relationships that strain because communication becomes exhausting.

Social activities you stop going to because you can't follow conversations.

Grandchildren who think you're ignoring them.

Cognitive decline — Johns Hopkins research links untreated hearing loss to dementia.

Years of your life spent pretending, struggling, and missing out.

The cost of hearing? Thirty-four cents.

I've served over 12,000 customers now. The regret I hear most often isn't "I wish I hadn't bought them."

It's "I wish I'd bought them sooner."

Every single time. Without exception.

"Why did I wait three years? For what?"

"I could have heard my grandson's first words. I missed them for nothing."

"My wife says she's got me back. What was I doing before?"

Don't be the person who waits. Don't be the person who adds up the cost of hearing and decides it's too much, while spending more than that on coffee without a second thought.

Try Modern Hearing for 45 days at home.

But I'll bet you 34¢ they change your life.

With respect,

David Taylor

Founder, Modern Hearing

P.S. One more number for you. Medicare doesn't cover hearing aids. Not a dime. Not now. Not ever. So every day you wait is a day you're choosing not to hear. At 34¢ per day, Modern Hearing costs less than a single Starbucks per week. The question isn't whether you can afford 34¢ a day. It's whether you can afford not to.

Download Download copy Original Open ad

## The Health Haven / Beet top 10

Approximately 1,600 active results. The Beet advertiser was found through Meta's advertiser selector, whose internal Ad Library ID differs from its public Facebook profile ID.

#1 by impressions Good

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A woman I had been nodding at for almost a year at my mother's assisted living facility sat down at my table in the visitors' lounge last October.

She said: I can't do another Sunday in this room by myself. Is it alright if I sit at your table?

I said yes.

Two hours later, when she stood up to leave, she had said one sentence to me that has been with me every day since.

I am writing this letter because I had been carrying two people quietly for the eighteen months before that Sunday.

My eighty-six-year-old mother, in her assisted living room forty minutes from my house.

And my sixty-seven-year-old husband, in our living room.

That woman gave me back one of them.

My name is Joan.

I live in a small town outside Buffalo with my husband, Greg.

We have been married for thirty-seven years.

Greg was a project manager at a manufacturing plant for forty-one years.

He retired three years ago.

We have one son and one daughter, both in their thirties, both living within an hour of us.

I retired four years ago after thirty-two years of doing the office administration for our parish.

We were, on paper, supposed to be entering the easiest years of our life.

My mother, Rita, is eighty-six.

She fell in her own kitchen eighteen months ago.

She broke her hip and recovered the way an eighty-six-year-old recovers from a broken hip, which is mostly but not all the way.

She has been living at a small assisted living facility called Linden Grove since then.

My brother lives in Cleveland and comes when he can.

I visit on Sundays.

Sometimes Wednesdays, when I can.

I bring her a small bag of clementines because she has loved clementines since I was a little girl.

She remembers some things and forgets others.

She is still my mother and she is mostly herself and the gap between mostly and entirely is the gap I have been quietly grieving for eighteen months.

My husband, Greg, is sixty-seven.

He has no medical diagnosis I could name for you.

He is not on any prescription medications.

His doctor — Dr. Anderson, a careful man we have been seeing for twenty-one years — had been mentioning, at Greg's last three annual physicals, that his cholesterol numbers had been creeping.

He had been telling Greg that we were getting close to the point where he was going to want to put him on something small.

Greg had been telling Dr. Anderson that he wanted six more months to work on it on his own.

Dr. Anderson had been giving him six more months.

That was the clinical version of where Greg was.

The version I had been living with was harder to put into words.

It looked like this.

It looked like the golf clubs in the corner of the garage, where Greg had set them down after his Saturday morning round eighteen months ago, sitting in exactly the same spot every Saturday morning since.

It looked like the truck Greg had washed every other Saturday for forty years, sitting in the driveway with road dust on it for the better part of a year.

It looked like Greg sitting in his recliner at three in the afternoon, falling asleep with the newspaper open on his lap, in a way he had never been a man who napped.

It looked like our evening walk — a mile and a half around the neighborhood, every night for twenty-six years — shrinking to four blocks and then three blocks and then around the block, with Greg waiting on the porch when I went the rest of the way alone.

It looked like Greg, at sixty-seven, declining quietly in our living room at the same time that I was driving to Linden Grove on Sundays to visit my mother declining quietly in hers.

I had been telling myself it was retirement.

I had been telling myself it was sixty-seven.

I had been telling myself it was the year my mother fell.

I had been telling myself a lot of things.

October last year, on a Sunday afternoon, I was sitting at a small round table in the visitors' lounge at Linden Grove.

The lounge is called the Sunshine Room because it has windows on three sides.

My mother had been moved to the medical wing that morning.

She had a small infection. Nothing serious. They were keeping her on antibiotics for a few days.

I was sitting in the Sunshine Room waiting for the nurse to come tell me when I could go back and see her.

I was on my third paper cup of bad coffee.

I was not in a good way.

A woman I had been nodding at in the hallway at Linden Grove for almost a year sat down at the table next to mine.

She was about my age.

Silver hair, cut short.

A canvas tote bag with a paperback book in it.

She set the bag down and put her elbows on the table and her face in her hands for a moment.

Then she looked up at me and said: I can't do another Sunday by myself in this room. Is it alright if I sit at your table?

I said yes.

She moved her coffee over.

She told me her name was Patricia.

She told me she went by Trish.

She told me she had been visiting her father at Linden Grove for three years.

I told her I had been visiting my mother for eighteen months.

We sat at that table for two hours.

I am not going to give you the whole conversation.

It is the conversation two women in their late fifties or early sixties have when they have been quietly doing the same thing alone for too long and finally find someone else who is also quietly doing it.

We talked about our parents.

We talked about the gap between mostly and entirely.

We talked about the moment you realize your mother is not coming back to where she was.

We talked about siblings who are far away.

We talked about the way Sunday afternoons in the Sunshine Room are very long.

About an hour and a half in, Trish said something offhand about her husband.

She said: I am tired in a way that has me worried, because my husband, Ron, is tired the same way. He is sixty-nine. He has been quietly slowing down for years.

I cannot afford to be slowing down at the same time he is, because there is no one else for either of these old people.

I told her about Greg.

I told her about the golf clubs in the garage.

I told her about the truck.

I told her about the four blocks shrinking to around the block.

I told her about the recliner at three in the afternoon.

Trish listened.

She nodded.

When I was finished, she sat with it for a minute.

Then she said something I have been thinking about every day since.

She said: About two years ago I added one small thing to Ron's mornings. I read for almost a month before I added it. I talked to his doctor and to his pharmacist before I added it. I want to be very careful with you about what I say next, because Ron is one man and you are looking at one man and bodies are different.

But Ron has been more himself, for the last two years, than he was for the four years before that. He has been present at our kitchen table.

He has been doing the small Saturday things he had stopped doing. He has been a man I recognize again.

She paused.

I did not give him anything in particular. I added one small additional thing to a long list of things he was already doing.

I kept everything else exactly the same. I would not want you to think I am telling you a fireworks story. I am telling you what happened in our house, alongside everything else we did.

I asked her what she had added.

She said it was a beetroot capsule.

She said the brand was called Rosabella.

She said she had picked it because the small company that made it cold-pressed the beetroot at low temperatures rather than processing it with heat, and because Ron's doctor had specifically said that how the beetroot was processed mattered for what would make it from the field into the capsule.

She said it the way a woman who has been carrying a load alone tells another woman who has been carrying a load alone what she has been doing.

She wasn't selling me anything.

She was just telling me.

The nurse came in about half an hour later to say I could go back and see my mother.

I sat with her for an hour.

I drove home thinking about Trish.

I drove the rest of that week thinking about Trish.

By the weekend, I was thinking about what I was going to do.

I went home and I started reading.

I read for almost three weeks.

I am, by temperament, a careful person.

I do not add things to my body or to my husband's body without understanding what I am adding.

I read about beetroot.

I read about the deep crimson pigment in the root.

It is called betalain.

It is the color that stains your cutting board for three days.

It is also, according to a long, patient body of research the cardiovascular community has been quietly building for decades, one of the more potent antioxidants in the food supply.

I read about the long, slowly built relationship the careful structure-function research has had with this vegetable.

In the context of supporting healthy circulation.

Supporting cardiovascular wellness.

Supporting the body's own cellular energy.

In people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

None of what I read was a fireworks story.

It was the opposite of one.

It was a vegetable that has been quietly studied for a long time by careful people who were not making outlandish claims.

The language being used in the careful corner of the conversation was the language I had been quietly hoping to find.

Supports healthy circulation.

Supports cardiovascular wellness.

Supports the body's own cellular energy.

Not lowers cholesterol.

Not fixes anything.

Not replaces what Dr. Anderson had been wanting to put Greg on.

That was the right shape.

I read about the cold-press, too.

The chemistry is straightforward.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive.

If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella cold-presses at low temperatures because they want as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

That is a slower way to make a supplement.

It costs them more.

At sixty, after watching my mother lose her independence in eighteen months and my husband lose his Saturday rituals over the same eighteen months, I have come to pay close attention to the small decisions companies make when no one is watching.

Those decisions tell you everything.

The other thing I liked was the simplicity.

Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water.

I have a mother forty minutes away.

I have a husband on the couch.

I have a small life I am trying to hold together.

I am not interested in a protocol that requires its own shelf.

Now I need to tell you the most important part of this letter.

Before I added it to anything Greg was already doing, I called our pharmacist.

His name is Paul.

He is the pharmacist at the small independent pharmacy in our town.

I have been filling things there for over twenty years.

I called him for a specific reason.

Greg is on no prescription medications.

He takes a multivitamin and a vitamin D in the winter.

I called Paul anyway.

I called because I am a careful person and because I wanted somebody who knew what was on Greg's chart to confirm that adding a beetroot capsule to a multivitamin was the right thing to do at his age.

Paul pulled up Greg's profile.

He confirmed there were no concerns at the dosage on the label.

He told me Greg could take it in the morning with his coffee the way the bottle suggested.

He told me to call him back if Dr. Anderson ever started Greg on any prescription medication in the future, because the conversation would be different at that point.

He told me, before he got off the phone, that he wished more of his patients made the call I had just made.

I also called Dr. Anderson's office that week.

I told the nurse what I was thinking about adding for Greg.

I told her the brand and the dosage.

She talked to Dr. Anderson and called me back the next day.

She told me Dr. Anderson had said it was a sensible thing to add — antioxidant support, no concerns at the dosage on the label, nothing to interact with anything Greg was taking — and to let him know how Greg was doing at his next appointment.

I want to say something now, plainly, to every reader of this letter.

If your husband — or your wife, or your father, or your mother, or the person you are caring for, or you yourself — is on any prescription medication, especially anything cardiovascular, please make the call before you add anything new.

I called Paul, and I called Dr. Anderson's office, and Greg was on nothing.

I would have called twice as fast if Greg had been on a cardiovascular prescription.

So should you.

The people who know the chart will tell you in two minutes whether the supplement is safe to add, given what is already being taken.

The two minutes the call takes is the most important two minutes of your engagement with any supplement you might consider adding.

I told Greg that night.

I told him about Trish.

I told him about the reading.

I told him about Paul and Dr. Anderson.

I told him I wanted him to try it for me.

He looked at the bottle.

He looked at me.

We have been married thirty-seven years.

He knows when I am asking something that matters.

Dr. Anderson said it was alright?

He said it was a sensible thing to add.

He nodded once.

Alright. For you.

In the morning I set two capsules on a saucer next to his coffee.

He took them with his first sip.

I did not say anything more about it.

He started on a Monday.

The first two weeks he felt nothing in particular.

I had read enough alongside what Trish had told me to know that bodies are different.

Some people notice something within the first week or two.

Some take much longer.

Some don't notice much at all.

I was prepared to land in any of those camps.

I was prepared to be honest with myself about the result.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly.

The first thing I noticed, around week six, was the truck.

It was a Saturday morning.

I was at the kitchen window with my coffee.

Greg was in the driveway with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge.

He had not washed his truck in fourteen months.

He washed it for almost an hour.

He waxed it after.

He came inside with the back of his shirt damp and asked me what I wanted for lunch.

I made him a sandwich.

I did not say anything about the truck.

I did not want to make a thing of it.

I had read enough not to make a thing of one observation.

The second thing I noticed, around week ten, was the long loop.

We had been doing the short loop — around the block, four hundred yards, with Greg waiting on the porch when I went the rest of the way alone — for almost a year.

One evening in early March, I came out the back door with my walking shoes on and Greg was already on the sidewalk in his own.

He said: let's do the long one tonight.

We did the long one.

A mile and a half.

He did not stop.

We finished at our porch and we sat on it for half an hour, the way we used to sit on it after the long loop, and we watched the sky go from purple to dark.

He went to bed at ten that night.

The next evening we did the long loop again.

The evening after that, again.

The third thing I noticed was at Linden Grove.

About four months in, Greg asked me on a Sunday morning whether I would mind if he came with me to visit my mother.

He had been coming with me, before, every other Sunday.

He had stopped coming about a year ago.

He had stopped because the visits exhausted him, and because the drive back was hard on his back, and because he could not, on top of everything else, sit in the Sunshine Room for two hours and be present.

He asked me on a Sunday morning if he could come.

I told him yes.

We drove to Linden Grove together.

He sat with my mother for an hour.

He helped her with her water glass at lunch.

He told her a story about our son that she had not heard before.

She brightened at it.

She held his hand at the end of lunch and she said: Gregory, you are a good boy.

She has called him Gregory since the first time he had Sunday dinner at my parents' house, when he was twenty-three years old and she did not yet know whether she trusted him with me.

She said it the same way that night.

He squeezed her hand.

I sat across the table and I watched the man I had been married to for thirty-seven years be present for an entire Sunday afternoon at my mother's assisted living facility.

I had not had him present for that, in any meaningful way, for fourteen months.

I made a quiet note.

I did not want to make a thing of it.

I want to be careful with what I am telling you.

I am writing this to people I do not know.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of those things on its own.

Greg had been resting more.

He had been doing the lifestyle work he had been telling Dr. Anderson he wanted to do.

I had been quietly leaving his walking shoes by the back door for two months before the long loop happened.

I had been making the kinds of small dinners that someone with his numbers should be eating.

Something had unlocked in him, the day I came home from Linden Grove the Sunday I met Trish, that had nothing to do with a capsule on a saucer.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a woman finally finds someone to carry the load with.

All I am telling you is that he added one small thing to a long list of small things he was newly doing.

He kept everything else exactly the same.

And a stretch of months followed that was qualitatively different from the eighteen months that had preceded it.

That is the honest version.

I would not give you a cleaner one.

Greg went to Dr. Anderson for his annual physical about seven months after he started.

Bloodwork the week before.

Dr. Anderson studied the results.

He looked at Greg.

He said: your numbers are in better shape than they have been in three years. Keep doing what you are doing.

Greg told him about the walking.

About the beetroot.

About starting to come to Linden Grove with me.

Dr. Anderson nodded.

He said: that is a sensible thing to add. There is good research on antioxidant support. Keep doing what you are doing and let's see where you are in another six months.

He did not bring up medication.

He had not brought it up in two appointments now.

Greg called me from the parking lot.

He didn't say anything at first.

Then he said: Joanie. I think I might be alright.

I was standing in our kitchen.

I sat down at the table.

I cried the way a woman cries when something she thought was leaving comes back to her instead.

Trish and I still see each other most Sundays at Linden Grove.

We have a small ritual now.

We meet in the Sunshine Room at noon on the Sundays when both of us are there.

We have coffee for fifteen minutes.

We tell each other small things about our parents and our husbands.

Then she goes to her father and I go to my mother.

Greg has come with me on three of the last six Sundays.

Twice he sat in the Sunshine Room with Trish's husband, Ron, after our visits ended, while Trish and I finished our coffee.

Two old men who, eighteen months ago, would not have made the drive to Linden Grove on a Sunday.

Sitting in the Sunshine Room with their wives.

I am telling you this because I think you might be where I was that Sunday in October.

Carrying two people quietly.

Watching the small things that used to be easy slowly stop being easy in someone you love.

Watching their doctor smile at numbers that look fine on a chart while the person attached to the numbers slowly dims.

If you have been carrying a quiet question for a year or two — alongside everything else you are already carrying — about whether there is one small additive thing that might support what is already working in his body, I want to say a few things to you carefully.

I do not know you.

I do not know your husband, your bloodwork, your situation, or what his doctor has said.

Bodies are different.

Some people notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this.

Some people take much longer.

Some people don't notice much at all.

That is the honest version.

Anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how I think about Rosabella now, in the words I would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, cardiovascular wellness, and the body's own cellular energy.

In people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is not a substitute for anything his doctor has him on.

It is not a treatment for the burden you are carrying or the load on your shoulders or any of it.

It is one small thing you add to the long list of things he is already doing for himself, alongside everything else.

Please call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before you add it.

If he is on any blood pressure medication, or cholesterol medication, or anything cardiovascular at all, this is non-negotiable.

I called Paul.

I called Dr. Anderson's office.

I would not have added anything to a prescription without those calls.

Neither should you.

The people who know his chart will tell you in two minutes whether the supplement is safe to add given what he is already taking.

I am a sixty-year-old woman in upstate New York with a mother in assisted living and a husband I am trying to keep present at our kitchen table.

I am not the person to ask.

His pharmacist or his doctor is.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee.

If you are not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing your mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to bloodwork.

It is not tied to anything you have to prove to anybody.

If you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied.

That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule.

There are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have.

Thank you for reading this far.

I hope something here was useful to you.

I hope, somewhere today, your own Trish is sitting at a small round table in a sunlit room, waiting for you to sit down across from her.

— Joan

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second.

The betalain pigment — the deep crimson, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive.

That is the chemistry of the molecule.

If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella chose the slow way.

Cold-press. Low temperatures. More of the compound through to the capsule.

It costs them money. It costs them time.

They made the choice anyway.

At sixty, after watching what eighteen months can do to two of the people I love most in the world, I have come to pay attention to the small decisions companies make when no one is watching.

Those decisions tell you everything.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water.

That is the entire protocol.

No powder to mix.

No afternoon dose to remember.

No schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard.

Greg keeps the bottle on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker.

He takes the capsules with his first sip.

I make the coffee.

That has been the rhythm of our morning for almost ten months.

We have earned a simple one at our age.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to.

Please.

Call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before you add anything new to what he is already taking.

Especially if he is on a blood pressure medication, a cholesterol medication, or anything cardiovascular.

They have his whole picture in front of them.

I have written you a letter.

There is a difference, and the difference matters.

The two minutes it takes to ask are the most important two minutes of your engagement with any supplement.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed.

Ninety days. Any reason at all.

You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about his numbers, not about how he feels.

If he tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied.

They send the money back.

That is the whole policy.

A small-company policy.

The kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Trish said to me at the small round table in the Sunshine Room — I cannot afford to be slowing down at the same time he is, because there is no one else for either of these old people — is the sentence that has stayed with me longest.

I had been thinking those exact words about my own situation for fourteen months.

I had never said them out loud to anyone.

I had not realized, until Trish said them, how heavy they had become.

If you are a woman carrying two people quietly the way I was — an aging parent on one side, a husband dimming on the other — I want you to know that you are not the only one.

You are not imagining the dimming.

You are not being dramatic.

You have been watching something real.

His doctor has been watching the chart.

You have been watching the man.

I hope you find your Trish.

I hope, if you have one already, you let yourself sit down at her table.

I hope you read carefully.

I hope you make the call before you add anything.

I hope, in a year from now, you are sitting in your own kitchen on a Saturday morning, watching the man you love wash his truck in the driveway, the way he used to wash it.

I hope that for you.

That is the whole reason I wrote this.

— J.

DISCLAIMER

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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### Library ID 2135998527250179

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A woman in the seat next to me at a community-college pottery class told me, very casually, why her hands had stopped bothering her.

I went home that night and thought about it for a week.

I am sixty-four years old. My name is Patricia, but I have been Pat to everyone I love since I was about six.

I retired three years ago from the regional library system in our part of central Ohio, where I had been a children's librarian for thirty-one years.

My husband, Doug, retired the year after me from the maintenance department of the city schools, where he had been the head of operations.

We have one daughter, who lives in Columbus with her own family, and three grandchildren we see most weekends.

We live in the same house we have lived in for thirty-six years, on a quiet street with old maples and neighbors who have mostly been here as long as we have.

I am telling you all of that because the story I want to tell you is small, and small stories are easier to follow if you know who the small story is happening to.

I started having achy hands about five years ago.

It was not a sudden thing. None of this has been a sudden thing.

It started the way these things start — one morning I noticed my hands felt a little stiff when I went to open a jar of peach preserves at breakfast.

I have been opening jars for fifty years. I noticed the stiffness because the jar took two tries instead of one, and because the second try involved my whole shoulder in a way that the first try used to handle on its own.

I did not think much of it.

I am a librarian, after all, and I had read enough about getting older to know that hands stiffen a little at sixty. I thought about it for the rest of the morning and then I forgot about it for almost a year.

Over the course of that year, though, I noticed it again. And then again. And then more often than that.

By the time I was sixty-one, I was waking up in the morning with hands that took about half an hour to feel like my hands.

I was reaching for jars two-handed.

I was finding that the small repetitive tasks of a life — knitting, which I have done since I was twelve, and the small bits of mending that come up when you live in an old house, and the dishes after a Sunday dinner with twelve people — were each leaving me with a quiet ache that lingered into the next morning.

I went to my doctor about it at my annual physical.

She is a careful woman, my doctor, in her early fifties, and she has been our family doctor since our daughter was in middle school.

She examined my hands. She asked me a number of careful questions. She ran some additional bloodwork.

She looked at the results and told me what she always tells me when she tells me good news — that everything was in the ranges she wanted to see it in.

She told me my hands looked, to her examination, like the hands of a sixty-one-year-old woman who had been using them carefully for sixty-one years.

She told me there was nothing she would treat at this stage, that this was the kind of thing many women her age and mine live with, and that she would keep an eye on it.

She was right. I want to say that clearly.

She was right that there was nothing to treat, and she was right to be conservative, and I do not have a complaint about how she handled the conversation. She did her job well.

But.

She had told me my numbers were in the ranges she wanted. She had told me there was nothing she would treat. She had told me I was, in every clinical sense, fine.

And I had gone home from that appointment to the same house with the same jars of preserves and the same knitting basket and the same dishes after Sunday dinner, and the achy hands were still my achy hands, and they were going to keep being achy hands, and the medical conversation about them was apparently over.

This is the gap I want to tell you about.

The gap between the chart is fine and the body that I live in still hurts in small ways that I have started to plan my days around.

It is a particularly quiet gap to live in, because there is no acute problem to solve and no one to complain to about it.

You learn to use both hands on the jar. You learn to do the knitting in smaller sessions. You learn to keep the dishes for the next morning.

You adjust.

I adjusted for two more years.

The achy hands stayed about the same.

The achy hands were joined, eventually, by an achy left hip that talked to me when I got out of the car after a long drive, and an achy lower back that talked to me when I worked in the garden for more than an hour.

By the time I was sixty-three I had three quiet conversations going on with three different parts of my body, and they had all of them become part of the daily texture of my life.

I want to be clear that none of this stopped me from doing anything.

I gardened. I knitted. I took the grandchildren to the park. I helped my daughter with the things she needed help with. I traveled with my husband. I lived my life.

The aches were just there, all the time, in the background, like the hum of an old refrigerator.

The thing I want to tell you about happened in the fall, about a year and a half ago, at the community-college pottery class I had signed up for partly because I had always wanted to and partly because my daughter had suggested it as something that might be good for my hands.

The reasoning was that pottery would keep my hands warm and moving and engaged, and that the instructor would be able to teach me techniques that did not strain the small joints.

My daughter is thoughtful in this particular way. I love her for it.

The class was on Tuesday evenings, in a basement studio at the community college fifteen minutes from our house. There were eleven of us — mostly women, mostly in our fifties or sixties, the kind of people who sign up for a pottery class on a Tuesday evening in the fall.

I sat next to a woman I had not met before.

Her name was Joan. She was, I would guess, sixty-eight or so, and she had silver hair pulled back in a long braid and the kind of hands that told you, before she said anything, that she had been working with them for a long time.

We exchanged the small pleasantries you exchange with the woman at the next wheel on the first night of a pottery class.

We learned each other's names. We talked about the grandchildren. We talked about whether either of us had done pottery before, which neither of us had.

We agreed, partway through the first session, that we were both terrible at centering the clay — which is the first thing you have to learn and which is genuinely much harder than it looks.

It was around the third or fourth class that I mentioned, in passing, that my hands had been bothering me a little more than usual that week.

I said it almost as an apology — I had been making a worse mess than usual at the wheel — and Joan looked over at my hands and asked, in the gentle way some older women ask things, how long my hands had been bothering me.

I told her. The abridged version: five years, started small, got steadier, three quiet conversations now with three different parts of my body, doctor said nothing to treat, I had adjusted.

She nodded. She did not interrupt me while I was telling it.

When I was finished, she said: I had the same conversation about my hands with my own doctor about four years ago, and my answer to it was about the same as yours.

I asked her what she meant.

She said: I adjusted. I learned to live with it.

And then she said something that I have been thinking about ever since.

She said: About three years ago, I started taking one small thing in the mornings — a beetroot capsule, of all things — and I want to be careful about what I say to you about it, because I do not want to overstate anything, but I have been doing it for three years now, and somewhere in the second year I noticed that my hands had stopped being the first conversation I had with my body every morning.

They are still my hands. They are still sixty-eight years old. They still talk to me when I have been doing something with them for a long time.

But the morning conversation is different than it used to be.

She told me she had not changed anything else about her life.

She told me she was still on the same prescriptions she had been on for years — a low-dose blood pressure medication and something for her thyroid — and that she had specifically called her pharmacist before she added the beetroot, to ask whether it would play nicely with what she was already taking.

Her pharmacist had told her it would, and to keep doing what she was doing.

She told me the small company she had been buying it from is called Rosabella, that she had picked it because they cold-pressed the beetroot at low temperatures rather than processing it with heat, and that she had been ordering the same bottle every six weeks for three years.

She said it casually.

She was not selling me anything. She was a woman at the next wheel telling me what she had been doing, the way women that age tell you things — without performance, just the facts of a life.

I went home that night and told my husband about it.

He asked me what I was going to do.

I told him I was going to think about it.

I thought about it for a week. Then I started reading.

I read for almost three weeks.

I am a librarian — was a librarian — and reading carefully is what I do.

I read about beetroot. I read about the deep crimson pigment called betalain — the color that stains your cutting board for three days — and about the dietary nitrates that are naturally present in the root.

I read about the long, patient relationship the research community has had with this vegetable for decades, in the context of supporting healthy circulation, supporting cardiovascular wellness, and supporting the body's own natural inflammatory response, in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

None of what I read was a fireworks story.

It was the opposite of one.

It was the kind of careful, slowly built body of evidence that I, as a librarian, recognized — the kind that comes from researchers who are not making outlandish claims and who are content to let the work accumulate over a long time.

I picked Rosabella, the brand Joan had mentioned, and I picked it for the reason she had given and for one other reason I came to on my own.

The reason Joan had given was the cold-press.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive. That is the chemistry of the molecule. If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella decided to cold-press the root at low temperatures because they wanted as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

That is a slower way to make a supplement, and at my age I have come to pay attention to the small decisions companies make when no one is watching, because those decisions tell you everything.

The reason I came to on my own was the simplicity.

Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water.

I am sixty-four. I have grandchildren and a garden and a knitting basket and a husband who likes his breakfast on the table at the same time every morning.

I am not interested in a protocol that requires its own shelf.

Before I started taking it, I called my pharmacist.

I called him because that is what Joan had done, and because the doctor and the pharmacist between them are the people who know what is on my chart, and I am not the kind of woman who adds anything to her morning routine without asking.

The pharmacist's name is Stephen and he has been at the small independent pharmacy in our town for the better part of twenty years.

I told him what I was thinking about adding. I told him about the over-the-counter pain reliever I take some mornings when my hands are particularly stiff.

He pulled up my profile, looked at the small things I am on — a thyroid medication I have been on since my mid-fifties, and the over-the-counter — and told me he had no concerns about adding a beetroot supplement in capsule form.

He told me to keep doing what I was doing on the medication side.

He told me, specifically, not to take more of the over-the-counter on the assumption that the beetroot would somehow balance it out — because that would be the kind of small change that should involve my doctor's office and not me on my own.

He told me to call him back, or to call my doctor, if anything changed.

I want to say something now that I am going to say several times before this letter is over, because it is the only thing in this letter that matters more than anything else.

If you are on any medication — prescription, over-the-counter, anything — call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add anything new to what you are already taking.

Especially if you take an over-the-counter pain reliever on any kind of regular basis, the way many women my age do.

Do not, under any circumstances, change a prescription or an over-the-counter routine on your own on the strength of what some retired librarian in Ohio wrote in a letter you found on the internet.

The people who know your chart will tell you in two minutes whether what you are thinking about adding makes sense for you.

I called Stephen. I would call him again tomorrow if I were adding anything else. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

I was adding it to what I was already doing.

Not stopping the thyroid medication. Not changing how often I took the over-the-counter when I needed it. Not adjusting anything else.

I started on a Monday.

The first two weeks I felt nothing in particular, and I want to tell you that honestly because the temptation in a letter like this one is to compress the timeline and pretend something dramatic happened on day three.

Nothing dramatic happened on day three.

I had read enough alongside what Joan had told me to know that bodies are different — some people notice something within the first week or two, some people take much longer than that, some people don't notice much at all — and I was prepared to land in any of those camps.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly, in pieces I did not connect at the time.

The first thing I noticed was the morning warm-up.

I have, for about four years, had a half-hour at the start of every day during which my hands were not quite my hands yet.

After a few weeks, I noticed that I had opened the cabinet for the coffee filters one morning without thinking about whether my hands were going to cooperate, and I realized halfway through the motion that they had cooperated, and that there had been no negotiation.

I made the coffee, drank it, and went on with my day.

It was not until that afternoon that I thought back and realized what had happened.

The second thing I noticed was the knitting.

I have been knitting in twenty-minute sessions for about three years, because longer sessions had become more than my hands wanted to give me.

Sometime in the second month, I sat down with my knitting after dinner one evening and the next time I looked at the clock it had been forty-five minutes.

I had not noticed my hands during those forty-five minutes, which is its own kind of news at sixty-four.

I put the knitting down because I was tired, not because my hands were tired.

The third thing I noticed was the morning conversation Joan had described.

I want to use her words for this because I do not have better ones.

My hands had been the first conversation I had with my body every morning for four years.

Somewhere in the second or third month of taking the beetroot capsule, that conversation got quieter.

They are still my hands. They are still sixty-four. They still talk to me when I have been pulling weeds in the garden for an hour.

But the morning conversation has changed.

I want to be careful with what I am telling you, because I am writing this to people I do not know and I do not want to overstate anything.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of that on its own.

I had been doing the pottery class for almost a year by the time I noticed anything, and the pottery class itself had been good for my hands — keeping them warm, keeping them moving, building small motor skills.

I had been walking more in the year leading up to this, because Doug and I had started taking the dog out twice a day after his second knee acted up.

I had been making a point of stretching for ten minutes in the mornings, on a tip from my daughter.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a person decides, finally, to pay attention to something that has been quietly bothering them for years.

All I am telling you is that I added one small thing to a long list of things I was already doing, kept everything else exactly the same, and a quiet stretch of months followed that had not been preceded by an equally quiet stretch.

That is the honest version. I would not trust anyone who gave you a cleaner one.

I saw my doctor at my next annual, about eight months in.

She did the same examination she does every year. She looked at my hands, asked her careful questions, and ran the bloodwork.

The bloodwork was where she wanted it, in the same ranges it had been the year before.

She told me to keep doing what I was doing.

I told her about the pottery and the walking and the stretching and the beetroot.

She nodded the way she nods when she is processing something. She did not push back on any of it.

She told me to come back in a year.

That is the whole story.

I am not, as I said, the kind of woman who writes letters to strangers.

But I have been thinking about Joan at the next wheel ever since that Tuesday in the fall, and about the small kindness of telling another woman, casually, without performance, what you have been doing.

If Joan had not said anything to me, I would still be opening the peach preserves two-handed in the morning and adjusting around my hands the way I had been doing for four years.

I do not know what Joan is doing now. I see her about every other week at the same pottery class — we have both signed up for the spring semester — and we talk about the grandchildren and the centering of the clay and the things women our age talk about at a pottery wheel.

I have told her, once, that I had taken her advice and that I was grateful.

She nodded the way she did and said, I am glad.

And we had gone back to our wheels.

If you are reading this and you are living with the kind of low-grade, quiet, daily aches I have been describing — and you have been told by your doctor that there is nothing to treat, and you have adjusted, and the body you live in is just achier than it used to be in small ways that have become part of your day — I want to say a few things to you carefully.

I do not know you. I do not know what your doctor has said. I do not know what you are taking.

Bodies are different. Some people notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some people take much longer. Some people don't notice much at all.

That is the honest version, and anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how I think about Rosabella now, in the words I would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, supporting cardiovascular wellness, and supporting the body's own natural inflammatory response — in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is one small thing you add to the long list of things you are already doing for yourself.

Please call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add it.

If you are on any medication at all — prescription or over-the-counter — and especially if you are on a regular over-the-counter pain reliever, this is non-negotiable.

The people who know your chart will tell you in two minutes whether what you are thinking about adding makes sense for you.

I am a retired children's librarian in Ohio who met a woman at a pottery wheel. I am not the person to ask. Your pharmacist or your doctor is.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee. If you are not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing your mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to your bloodwork. It is not tied to anything you have to prove to anybody.

If you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied. That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule, which means there are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far.

I hope something here was useful to you. And I hope, somewhere in the country today, Joan is at her wheel making something beautiful with hands that have been carrying her for sixty-eight years.

— Pat

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second, because I rushed past it. The betalain pigment — the deep red, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive. If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat. Rosabella chose the slow way. Cold-press, low temperatures, more of the compound through to the capsule. It costs them money and time. They made the choice anyway. That was a piece of why I picked them, and at sixty-four it is the small things that tell you who you are dealing with.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water. That is the entire protocol. No powder to mix, no afternoon dose to remember, no schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard door. I keep the bottle on the counter next to the coffee. Doug and I have earned a simple morning at this point.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to. Please. Call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add anything new to what you are already taking. Especially if you are taking an over-the-counter pain reliever on a regular basis, the way many women my age do. They have your whole picture. I have written you a letter. There is a difference, and the difference matters. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed. Ninety days. Any reason at all. You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about your numbers, not about how you feel. If you tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied, and they send the money back. That is the whole policy and it is a small-company policy, the kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Joan said at the pottery wheel — my hands had stopped being the first conversation I had with my body every morning — has been with me for a year and a half now. It was a small sentence, said casually, by a woman I had only just met. I think about it almost every day. I think about how many small kindnesses get exchanged between women of a certain age, at a pottery wheel, at a grocery store, in line at the pharmacy, in waiting rooms, that we never tell anyone about. I do not know what the equivalent of Joan is in your life. But I hope you find her. I hope someone says a small sentence to you that gets you to start paying attention. And I hope, in a year, you find yourself doing something you used to do without thinking about it — opening a jar, knitting for forty-five minutes, getting through a Sunday's dishes — and you realize, halfway through, that you have not been thinking about it at all. I hope that is for you. That is the whole reason I wrote this letter.

— P.

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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My wife and I have been married for thirty-eight years.

For about three of them, I had been slowly disappearing on her.

And I had not had the courage to tell her so.

I'm sixty-three years old.

We met at the community college where she was studying to be a paralegal and I was finishing my associate's in HVAC, and we got married eighteen months later, which is something neither of us recommends to our children.

It worked out for us. It mostly doesn't.

The disappearing I'm talking about did not happen all at once.

It almost never does.

It happened the way these things happen — in small pieces over a long time, none of which I noticed individually, all of which I could see clearly when I finally turned around and looked at the three years behind me.

I had been less present at the dinner table.

Less interested in the small things Linda wanted to tell me about her day.

Less inclined to suggest the small Saturday-afternoon outings we used to take — the drive to the orchard, the antique mall in Quakertown, the diner near the lake.

I had been falling asleep in my chair earlier in the evening.

Quieter on long drives where we used to talk for hours.

I had been, in ways I could feel but not put a name to, a smaller version of the man I had been for the first thirty-five years of our marriage.

I had also been telling myself it was normal.

I told myself it was age. I told myself it was the stress at the HVAC company, the weight of the responsibilities I had taken on there that did not go away when I got home in the evening.

I told myself it was the sleep that wasn't as good as it used to be, and the back that ached in the morning the way it didn't when I was forty-five, and the long winter we'd had two years running.

And I told myself, in the part of my mind I do not usually visit, that it was something else too.

Something I did not want to look at directly.

Something I had been carrying quietly for two or three years and had not said to anyone — including Linda, including myself in any way that would have required me to do something about it.

I had not done anything about it.

I had thought about doing something about it.

I had not done anything.

This is the part of the letter where the story actually starts.

Because the disappearing went on for almost three years before anything changed.

And what changed it was a weekend on a farm in Lancaster County, and a man on a porch on a Friday night in October, and a sentence about a horse.

Linda and I have two grown daughters.

The older one, Rebecca, lives twenty minutes from us in the suburbs of Allentown and works for the school district.

The younger one, Hannah, lives outside Lititz in Lancaster County, where she married into an Old Order Mennonite family eleven years ago.

Hannah, when she was twenty-three, took a job in Lancaster County for the summer doing administrative work at a small farm-equipment cooperative.

She met a young man named Aaron there — quiet and deliberate the same way she was — and over about two years she made a series of decisions that her mother and I could not have predicted but that, in retrospect, we should have.

She joined the church. She married Aaron. She moved onto the farm his family had owned for four generations, twelve miles east of Lititz.

She and Aaron have four children now. Linda and I see them about six times a year.

I am telling you all of this because the man who is the reason for this letter is Aaron's father.

His name is Eli.

Eli is eighty-three years old.

I want you to sit with that number for a moment, because the rest of this letter depends on it.

He still works the farm.

Not the way his sons work it — his sons handle the heavy hauling and the long days now — but he works it.

He milks in the mornings beside Aaron. He repairs the small things that need repairing.

He goes out into the field at six o'clock in the morning in March and he goes out into the field at six o'clock in the morning in November and he comes in for the noon meal and he eats with the same appetite he has had for sixty years and he goes back out in the afternoon.

He is not infirm. He is not in decline.

He is eighty-three and he is, in the small ordinary way that tells you everything, present in his life.

That is the word I had been looking for, for three years.

Present.

Linda and I drove down to Lancaster County for our usual long weekend on a Friday afternoon in October two years ago.

It rained for most of the drive.

Linda fell asleep in the passenger seat the way she has fallen asleep in the passenger seat for thirty-eight years, and I drove the last hour listening to the radio with the volume low, thinking about how few long drives we had taken together that year.

We used to drive places. We used to take the long route home from Hannah's, through Reading, just to stretch out the day.

I had not done that in two years.

We had been driving down on Friday and back on Sunday, the most direct way both directions.

The difference was small. But it was a difference. And I had noticed it and said nothing.

We got to the farm a little before six. Hannah and Anna had supper waiting. Eli came in from the barn. The grandchildren ran around the kitchen the way grandchildren do.

After supper, the men sat on the front porch while the women cleaned the kitchen. That is how it goes on the farm, and Linda and I have learned, over eleven years, not to argue with the rhythm of a house that is not ours.

Aaron went out to check on something in the barn.

It was Eli and me on the porch.

Eli is a quiet man. He talks when he has something to say and he does not when he doesn't.

He had been watching me at supper. I had not been talkative. After we had sat in silence for about ten minutes, he said, in the careful way he says things:

George, you have been quiet this weekend in a way I have not seen you be quiet.

I will tell you what I told him, because I am going to ask you to extend me the same dignity I am extending to myself in telling it.

I told him I had been feeling for the past few years like I was slowly becoming a smaller version of myself, in ways I could not put my finger on.

I told him I had been telling myself it was age.

I told him I had been telling myself it was stress.

I told him I had not done anything about it because I had not known what to do.

Eli sat with that for a long time. He is not a man who rushes a response.

He said: I have been an old man for some time now, George. The body changes. That is not the question. The question is whether you are paying attention to your own body the way you would pay attention to a horse that wasn't pulling right.

I asked him what he meant.

He said: If a horse was off, you would know within a week. You would look at the harness. You would look at the feed. You would look at the legs. You would not tell yourself it was age and let the horse keep pulling.

I sat with that for a long time.

He said one more thing before Aaron came back from the barn.

He said: I am eighty-three. I am still on this farm because I have paid attention to this body the way I have paid attention to this land. The body is the land you live on, George. Tend it.

Aaron came back and we talked about the price of feed and the weather forecast, and that was the end of the conversation.

Eli did not bring it up again. He did not give me advice. He had said what he had to say and he let me sit with it — which is a thing that men of Eli's generation know how to do, and that men of my generation, in the world I come from, mostly don't.

Linda and I drove home on Sunday.

I took the long way through Reading.

We talked the whole drive.

I did not say anything to her about the conversation with Eli. I was not ready.

The Monday after we got back, I sat down at the kitchen table after work and started, for the first time in three years, actually paying attention to my own body.

I started where it made sense to me to start.

With reading.

I am sixty-three. I have spent twenty-six years running an HVAC company. I am not a man who jumps at the first thing he reads on the internet.

I read for three weeks. In the evenings, on the couch, with the dog at my feet, the way you read about something when you are taking it seriously.

I had heard about beetroot for years — at the diner, in the magazines Linda brings home from the grocery store, in the back of a newspaper health section I usually skipped past. I had never really looked into it.

I started there.

I read about the deep crimson pigment in beetroot. It is called betalain — the color that stains everything for two days. I read about the dietary nitrates that are naturally present in the root.

I read about the long, patient relationship the research community has had with this vegetable for decades, in the context of cardiovascular wellness and supporting healthy circulation.

None of what I read was a fireworks story.

It was the opposite of one.

It was a careful body of evidence, slowly built, by careful people who were not making outlandish claims.

I told Linda, somewhere in the middle of that three weeks, that I was reading about it.

I told her I was thinking about adding one small thing to what I was already doing in the mornings.

I told her about Eli on the porch, and the horse.

I had not told her any of what I had been carrying before that conversation. I should have told her years earlier. That is on me.

She listened the way she listens — without performance and without judgment — and at the end of it she said: thank you for telling me. What do you want to do?

I told her I wanted to think for another week or so.

She said okay.

After that week, I picked one of the brands I had read about.

A small company called Rosabella.

I picked it for one specific reason.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive. That is the chemistry of the molecule. If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

The people at Rosabella decided to cold-press the root at low temperatures because they wanted as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

That is a slower way to make a supplement. It tells you something about who is running the operation.

The other thing I liked was the simplicity of it. Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water.

I am sixty-three and I have a job and a wife and a yard and four grandchildren under the age of nine. I am not interested in a protocol that requires its own shelf.

Before I started, I did something I want to tell you about clearly, because it is the most important thing in this letter.

I have been on a low-dose blood pressure medication for six years. A low-dose cholesterol medication for four.

I would not add anything new to what I was already taking without asking somebody who would know whether the new thing played safely with the old things.

So I called my pharmacist — the man at the counter at the pharmacy where I have been filling my prescriptions for nine years.

I told him what I was thinking about adding. I asked him plainly whether there was any reason not to, given what I was already on.

He pulled up my profile, looked at the medications and the dosages, and told me he had no concerns about adding beetroot in capsule form to what I was already taking.

He told me to keep doing what I was doing on the medication side. He told me not to change anything about the prescriptions without my doctor in the loop. He told me to call him again, or call my doctor's office, if I had any questions.

I want to say something now that I am going to say several times before this letter is over, because it is the only thing in this letter that matters more than anything else.

Whatever your doctor has you on, stay on.

Call your pharmacist or your doctor's office and ask before you add anything new.

Do not, under any circumstances, change a prescription on your own on the basis of what some man in Pennsylvania wrote in a letter you found on the internet.

Call somebody who knows what is on your chart. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

I was adding it to what I was already doing. Not stopping the blood pressure medication. Not stopping the cholesterol medication. Not changing anything else.

I started on a Tuesday.

I picked Tuesday because Monday felt like too much pressure.

The first two weeks, I felt nothing in particular.

I want to tell you that honestly, because the temptation in a letter like this one is to pretend something dramatic happened on day three.

Nothing dramatic happened on day three.

I had read enough to know that bodies are different — some people notice something within the first week or two, some people take much longer, some people don't notice much at all — and I had braced myself for any of those outcomes.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly, in pieces I did not connect at the time.

The first thing I noticed was that I was sitting through the evening news without falling asleep in my chair.

I had been falling asleep in my chair for the better part of two years.

After a few weeks, I was making it to the end of the broadcast. Sometime in the second month, I was making it to nine o'clock.

One night, a couple of months in, Linda and I sat on the couch watching a movie together at nine-thirty on a Saturday, the way we used to fifteen years ago.

I was awake for the whole thing.

The second thing I noticed was that I was driving the long way home from Hannah's.

Linda and I went down for Thanksgiving — a few weeks after I started — and on the Sunday we drove home through Reading, the way we used to.

I had suggested it without thinking about it.

Linda had looked at me sideways from the passenger seat and not said anything.

We stopped for coffee at a diner outside Pottstown. Sat in a booth for forty-five minutes. Talked about our grandchildren and about Eli, who Linda likes a great deal, and about a small kitchen renovation Linda had been wanting to do for two years that I had been quietly putting off.

By the time we got home, we had agreed to start the renovation in the spring.

The third thing I noticed was that I was present in my marriage in a way I had not been for some time.

I noticed it in the kitchen when Linda was telling me about her day, and I did not have to ask her to repeat what she had just said.

I noticed it in the car.

I noticed it on a Saturday afternoon in February when we drove out to look at tile samples and ended up taking the long way home and stopping at a small park I had not been to in twenty years.

I noticed it in the small daily ways that a long marriage works, when both people are actually there for it.

I had stopped being there for it without realizing I had stopped.

I was there for it again.

That was the gift.

I want to be very careful with what I am telling you here.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of those things on its own.

I had finally told Linda what I had been carrying.

I had taken Eli's sentence about the horse seriously enough to start paying attention to my own body the way he had described.

I had been doing the walking I had been doing inconsistently for years, and I had started doing it more consistently.

I had been protecting my sleep more carefully.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a man finally decides to pay attention to something he has been not paying attention to for a long time.

All I am telling you is that I added one thing to a long list of things I was already doing, kept everything else exactly the same, and a quiet stretch of months followed that had not been preceded by an equally quiet stretch of months.

That is the honest version. I would not trust anyone who gave you a cleaner one.

That is the whole story.

I am writing this letter to men who are in the gap I was in — who have noticed something has drifted in their own lives in ways they have not been able to look at directly.

I want to tell you something plainly, one time.

Take Eli's sentence seriously.

Pay attention to your own body the way you would pay attention to a horse that wasn't pulling right.

Whatever paying attention looks like in your life — talking to your wife, talking to your doctor, reading carefully, making small honest changes — start there.

The point is not Rosabella.

The point is that you stop telling yourself it is just age and start paying attention.

If, somewhere down the road, paying attention takes you toward Rosabella specifically, I want to say a few things to you carefully, because I am aware that a letter like this can be read in a hurry by a man who is in a hurry to feel like himself again.

I do not know you. I do not know your bloodwork or your medications.

Bodies are different. Some men notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some men take much longer. Some men don't notice much at all.

That is the honest version, and anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how Linda and I think about Rosabella now, in the words we would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, cardiovascular wellness, and the body's own cellular energy — in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is one small thing you add to the long list of things you are already doing for yourself.

Please — and I really do mean this, I am not saying it because somebody told me to — call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add it.

If you are on any medication for blood pressure, or cholesterol, or anything cardiovascular at all, this is non-negotiable.

The people who know what is on your chart will tell you in two minutes whether it makes sense for you to add.

I am a sixty-three-year-old man who spent a weekend on an Old Order Mennonite farm and finally started paying attention. I am not the person to ask. Your pharmacist or your doctor is.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee. If you are not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing your mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to your bloodwork. It is not tied to anything you have to prove to anybody.

If you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied. That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule, which means there are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far. I hope something here was useful to you.

— George

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second, because I rushed past it. The betalain pigment — the deep red, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive. If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat. Rosabella chose the slow way. Cold-press, low temperatures, more of the compound through to the capsule. It costs them money and time. They made the choice anyway. That was a piece of why I picked them.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water. That is the entire protocol. No powder to mix, no afternoon dose to remember, no schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard door. I keep the bottle on the counter next to the coffee pot. Linda keeps the coffee pot full. That is the rhythm of our morning at sixty-three and at sixty-one and we have earned a simple one.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to. Please. Whatever you take away from this letter, take this. Call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add anything new to what you are already taking, especially if you are on anything for blood pressure or cholesterol or anything cardiovascular. They have your whole picture in front of them. I have written you a letter. There is a difference, and the difference matters. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed. Ninety days. Any reason at all. You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about your numbers, not about how you feel. If you tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied, and they send the money back. That is the whole policy and it is a small-company policy, the kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Eli said to me on the porch — the body is the land you live on, George. Tend it — has been with me every day since. I do not farm. I do not pretend to. I have an HVAC business and a yard with a small vegetable patch that Linda planted twelve years ago. But the sentence was not about farming. The sentence was about paying attention to your own body the way you would pay attention to a horse that wasn't pulling right. I had not been paying that kind of attention. I am now. I do not know what the equivalent of that sentence is in your life. But I hope you find it. And I hope, somewhere down the road, you find yourself in a moment with the person you love where you are more there than you have been in a long time, and that you know it when you are. I hope that for you. That is the whole reason I wrote this letter.

— G.

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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#4 by impressions Mixed Longest-running

### Library ID 36261764916743843

Started
  May 8, 2026
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  64 days
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If your energy is gone by noon, take beetroot.

If your legs feel heavy and your body feels older than it should, take beetroot.

If your circulation is poor, take beetroot.

If your stamina isn't what it used to be, take beetroot.

If you feel out of breath doing things that never used to wind you, take beetroot.

If you're 40 and wake up without energy, take beetroot.

Throw away the detox teas, energy drinks, and trendy supplements. Listen to me carefully.

Just focus on getting pure beetroot.

Drinking beet juice is not the same as taking organic beetroot because you strip away the fibers.

Now you might ask, why beetroot?

Because beetroot is very rich in natural nitrates. As you age, your body produces less nitric oxide — the molecule that helps keep blood vessels relaxed and circulation flowing properly. Beetroot's natural nitrates help your body support healthy nitric oxide levels, which promotes better circulation, supports cardiovascular health, and helps restore the steady energy your body is supposed to have.

But before you go buy any beetroot, there's one thing you need to know. Some supplements aren't effective — too weak, too low in dose, mixed with fillers. To know your beetroot is pure and potent, it should be certified by independent laboratories here in the United States.

Rosabella meets that standard with every batch. Each serving delivers 1300mg of cold-extracted organic beetroot — nothing else.

Thousands of reviews. 90-day money-back guarantee. Tap the orange cart below while it's still in stock.

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#5 by impressions Mixed

### Library ID 811245205108706

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  May 12, 2026
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My doctor told me I was the healthiest sixty-one-year-old she'd seen all week. I drove home and cried in the driveway.

I don't quite know how to start this except to tell you the truth, which is that nothing was wrong with me.

I don't mean that the way people say it when they're being modest. I mean it the literal way. The bloodwork was good.

The blood pressure was good. The weight was where it had been since my forties. The mammogram was clean, the colonoscopy was clean, the bone density was where they wanted it to be, the thyroid panel was where it had been for years on the small dose I take for it.

My doctor — a woman I've trusted for nine years, who has never once oversold me on anything — looked at me across her desk that afternoon, set down her tablet, and said, Carol, you are doing everything right.

I wish more of my patients looked like your charts.

And I sat in my car in her parking lot for about twenty minutes afterward and cried, with the keys in my hand and the engine off, because I had not felt right in close to two years and I did not know how to explain that to a single person, including myself.

You can probably guess the rest of this letter from there, or you can't, and which one you are tells you whether to keep reading.

The thing I'm describing is the gap between the chart says you're fine and the body you have to live inside doesn't feel fine.

It is a peculiarly lonely place to live.

You can't really complain about it because, technically, you don't have anything to complain about.

People ask how you are at church and at the grocery store and at the school where I substitute-teach two days a week, and you say good, good, because what are you supposed to say — my labs are perfect and I feel like someone unplugged me from the wall? They'd think you were being dramatic. Most days I thought I was being dramatic.

Let me try to tell you what off actually felt like, because I think specifics matter when you're trying to figure out whether someone is describing your life or someone else's, and most letters like this one are too vague to help with that decision.

It felt like waking up at six-thirty after eight hours of sleep and lying there for another twenty minutes trying to convince my legs the day was worth getting up for. Not depression — I'll come back to that — just a flat resistance to standing up.

It felt like reading the same paragraph of a novel four times and giving up on the book and not picking up another one for nine months. I am a person who reads.

I have been a person who reads since I was eight years old. I had a stack of novels on the nightstand that I'd bought with intention and stopped opening, and every night I'd look at the stack and feel a small private grief about it, and turn off the light.

It felt like standing in the produce aisle staring at the bell peppers and forgetting why I'd come to the store at all — and not in the cute what did I come in here for way that everyone laughs about, but in a quieter way where I'd stand there for a full minute, hand on the cart, mind blank, until something snapped back into place.

It felt like my husband — his name is Tom, he is sixty-three, he is a retired surveyor who reads three newspapers a day and still thinks the world is mostly interesting — saying something funny at dinner and me laughing a beat too late because I'd been somewhere else inside my head. He never pointed it out.

He's not that kind of man. But I noticed myself doing it and I felt myself becoming a person I didn't recognize across the table from him.

And it felt like a two p.m. crash, every afternoon, like clockwork — except it wasn't a crash, exactly, so much as a slow leak. By two I was running on fumes. By four I was done. By eight I was in bed reading the same page four times.

I lost most of my evenings for almost two years. We used to play cards after dinner. Gin rummy, mostly, sometimes cribbage. We stopped without ever saying we were stopping. The cards just stayed in the drawer.

I want to be clear about something now, so we can move past it. None of this was depression. I went and asked, because I am not the kind of woman who refuses to talk to somebody when something is wrong.

I sat with a therapist for three sessions. She was a kind woman in her fifties with a small office and a fern on her desk, and she was thorough, and at the end of the third session she put her pen down and said, Carol, I don't think this is what you think it is.

I don't think it's depression. I think your body is telling you something your mind is trying to translate, and I think that's the conversation you actually need to be having. I have turned that sentence over in my hands many times since. I will come back to it at the end of this letter.

So back to the parking lot, and the crying, and the long drive home that afternoon.

Tom listened to me try to explain all this that night at the kitchen table, and he didn't try to solve it, which is one of the reasons I married him forty-one years ago.

He just said, what do you want to do? And I said, I don't know. I want to feel the way I used to feel. I don't know how to get there from here. And he said, Okay, then we figure that out. That was the whole of his contribution and it was exactly the right amount.

What happened next was so small I almost didn't want to write it down because it sounds invented. But I'm telling you what actually happened, because if I dress it up you won't trust me and you shouldn't.

About a week later I was at the farmer's market on a Saturday morning — I go most Saturdays, it's one of the things still on the short list of things I look forward to, even in the bad stretch I'm describing it stayed on the list — and I got to talking with the woman who runs the root vegetable stand.

Her name is Lorraine and I have known her in the way you know market people for the better part of six years. She is in her late sixties and she has the strong hands of a woman who has been pulling things out of the dirt for most of her life.

I had a bag of beets in my hand because Tom likes them roasted with goat cheese and walnuts, and Lorraine looked at the bag and said something offhand about beets being one of those things people were paying attention to again.

I asked her what she meant. She said her son-in-law had been reading about beetroot — about cardiovascular wellness, about cellular energy, that sort of thing — and had started taking it in capsule form on top of eating the actual root, and he was a man who didn't believe in much of anything, and she shrugged in the way that meant but here we are, and he says it makes a difference.

She said it casually. She wasn't trying to sell me anything. She was a woman with dirt under her fingernails making conversation while she weighed beets.

I went home and looked it up.

I did not look it up the way I look most things up, which is to say I did not skim. I read for two weeks. I read about the deep crimson pigment in beetroot — it's called betalain, that color that stains your cutting board for three days and your fingers for two.

I read about the nitrates that are naturally present in the root. I read about the long, patient relationship the research community has had with this vegetable for decades, in the context of cardiovascular wellness and cellular energy.

None of what I read was a fireworks story. It was the opposite of a fireworks story.

It was a vegetable that has been quietly studied for a long time by careful people who are not making outlandish promises.

I am sixty-one and I have lived through enough wellness fads to have grown a sturdy skepticism about anything that promises me my old self back in thirty days.

I once paid two hundred dollars for a powder that was supposed to "reset" my mitochondria — a powder that tasted, very specifically, like pond water — and it did nothing.

I once tried a thing where you put drops under your tongue for adrenal fatigue. I once tried a tea cleanse. I do not tell those stories with shame. I tell them the way you tell I used to smoke. It was a different time, and I knew less, and I'm older now.

So I was not in a hurry. I read, and I thought about it, and I read some more, and eventually I picked one to try. I picked Rosabella Beetroot, and I picked it for a reason worth telling you about.

The reason is that betalain — the pigment, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive. That's the chemistry of the molecule. If you process beetroot with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

The people at Rosabella decided to cold-press the beetroot at low temperatures because they wanted as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

That is a slower way to make a supplement, and it tells you something about who is running the operation. The other thing I liked was that it was one bottle.

Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water, and you're done for the day. No afternoon dose, no powder to blend, no schedule to memorize. I did not want a stack of seven things and a protocol. I am sixty-one and I have earned a simple morning.

Before I started it, I called my doctor's office. Not for an appointment — just a question through the nurse line. I explained what I was thinking about adding, and asked whether I should worry about it given the small dose of thyroid medication I take.

The nurse said she'd check with my doctor and call me back, and she called me back the same afternoon and said no concerns, go ahead, keep doing the walking and the water and the rest of it.

I was adding it to what I was already doing. I was not stopping anything, I was not swapping anything out, I was not adjusting any of my prescriptions. I want to make sure I say that part as clearly as I can, because I would feel terrible if anybody read this letter and got the wrong idea about what I did. Whatever your doctor has you on, stay on.

Just call them or your pharmacist and ask before you add. That's the whole rule.

Two capsules. Morning. Glass of water. That was it. I started on a Tuesday because I had nothing better to anchor it to.

The first two weeks, I felt nothing in particular, and I want to tell you that honestly because the temptation in a letter like this one is to compress the timeline and pretend something dramatic happened on day three. Nothing dramatic happened on day three.

I had read enough to know that bodies are different.

Some people notice something within the first week or two. Some people take much longer than that. Some people don't notice much at all. I was prepared to land in any of those camps and I was trying to keep my expectations honest.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly, in pieces I did not connect at the time.

The first thing I noticed was that I finished a book. A whole novel, a five-hundred-page novel, in about ten days, the way I used to. I had not finished a book in nine months.

I put it down on the side table next to the stack I had been ignoring, and I went to pick up the next one, and I felt this small flutter of something I recognized — the feeling of I want to know what happens next.

I had missed that feeling and I had not known I was missing it until it came back. I sat with the second book for a minute before I opened it because I didn't want to scare it away.

The second thing I noticed was that the two p.m. leak had moved. It wasn't gone.

I'm not going to tell you it was gone, because that would be a lie and you would smell it. But it was happening at three-thirty instead of two, and on some days it didn't really start until after dinner.

That was a piece of afternoon I had been giving away for almost two years, and I had it back, and I started using it.

I started a small herb garden on the back porch. Nothing ambitious — basil, thyme, two pots of mint that immediately tried to take over. But it was something I was doing in the afternoon instead of being done with the afternoon.

The third thing I noticed was a Tuesday in week six or seven, when Tom and I were doing the dishes after dinner — he washes, I dry, that's been the arrangement for forty-one years — and he said, without looking at me, you seem more here lately.

He said it the way he says most things, which is quietly and without making a production of it. I did not say anything back for a minute, because I was figuring out whether he was right. Then I said, I know. I am. And we finished the dishes.

The fourth thing I noticed — and I am putting this one in because I think it might be the one that actually means something — is that we started playing gin rummy again. Not because I made a decision to.

The deck just came out of the drawer one Sunday evening and we played three hands and I won two of them and Tom said welcome back. I almost cried at the kitchen table. I didn't, but it was a near thing.

I want to be very careful with what I am telling you here. I am not saying Rosabella did any of that on its own. I was walking three mornings a week.

I was sleeping seven and a half hours most nights. I was eating the way I have been eating for twenty years — fish, vegetables, less sugar than I used to.

I was doing the small things I had been doing for years and that my doctor had been approving of for years. All I am telling you is that I added one thing to the list, kept everything else exactly the same, and the weeks felt less heavy than they had been feeling for a long time. I can't give you a cleaner version of that, and I would not trust anyone who tried to give you one.

The honest version is messy and I am giving you the honest version.

I went back to my doctor at the regular six-month, which fell about four months after I'd started, and I told her what I had added. She nodded the way she nods when she is thinking, which is slowly, with her chin in her hand.

She looked at the bloodwork on the tablet — which was where she wanted it, the same range it had been the visit before — and she said, Carol, whatever combination of things you're doing, keep doing it. I don't see any reason to change a thing. She said no concerns. Come back in six months.

I drove home that day and I did not cry. I made it home, hung up the keys, and went out to the porch to check on the basil.

On Saturday I went to the farmer's market and I bought beets from Lorraine, and I told her, and she said I'm glad, and weighed my beets, and that was that.

That's the whole story. I am sorry if you came here for a more dramatic one. There isn't one.

There is just a quiet one, about a woman who felt unplugged for two years and feels a little more plugged in now, and who wanted to tell you about it in case you are also in the gap.

If you're in the gap — your tests are fine and your body isn't — I want to say a few things to you carefully, because I'm aware this kind of letter can get read in a hurry and I don't want to be misunderstood.

I don't know you. I don't know your bloodwork, or what you are already taking, or what your doctor has said to you in your last appointment. Bodies are different.

Some people notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some people take longer. Some people don't notice much at all. That is the honest version, and anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how I think about Rosabella now, in the words I would actually use. It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, cardiovascular wellness, and the body's own cellular energy, in people whose numbers are already in the range they should be in.

It is not a fix for anything. It is one small thing you add to the long list of things you are already doing for yourself.

Please call your doctor or your pharmacist before you add it. I really mean this — I am not saying it because somebody told me to.

If you are on anything for blood pressure, or anything cardiovascular, or really anything at all, the people who know your chart will tell you in two minutes whether it makes sense for you.

I am a woman who got curious about a vegetable. I am not the person to ask. They are.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee. If you are not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing your mind — they refund you. It is not tied to your bloodwork.

It is not tied to anything you have to prove to anybody. If you are not happy, you are not happy. That is all they ask.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule, which means there are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anyone push you into a health decision — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far. I hope something here was useful to you.

— Carol

P.S. I wanted to come back to the cold-press for a second, because I rushed past it earlier. The betalain pigment — the deep red, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive. If you process beetroot the fast way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat. Rosabella chose the slow way. Cold-press, low temperatures, more of the compound through to the capsule. That choice costs them money and time and they made it anyway. That was a piece of why I picked them, and it is a small thing but I am at an age where I have learned that the small things tell you who you are dealing with.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water. That is the entire protocol. No powder to mix, no afternoon dose to remember, no schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard door. I have earned a simple morning at this point in my life, and I appreciated being given one.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say this once more because I actually mean it. Please talk to your doctor or your pharmacist before you add anything new to what you are already taking, especially if there is anything cardiovascular on your chart. They have your whole picture in front of them. I have written you a letter. There is a difference, and the difference matters. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed past it. Ninety days. Any reason at all. You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about your numbers, not about how you feel. If you tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied, and they send the money back. That is the whole policy and it is a small-company policy, the kind of thing companies used to do back when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The line the therapist said to me — your body is telling you something your mind is trying to translate — has stayed with me for a long time. I do not know exactly what she meant by it. I took it as permission to listen to the part of myself that knew something was off, even when every test said nothing was. If you are doing the same kind of listening, in your own life, I hope you find your way through the gap. I hope this letter was one small thing in that direction. And I hope, whatever you decide to do or not do after reading this, that the next year of your life feels a little more like the year you wanted than the last one did.

— C.

DISCLAIMER

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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#6 by impressions Good Longest-running

### Library ID 1464701708442566

Started
  May 8, 2026
Running
  64 days
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If your energy is gone by noon, take beetroot.

If your legs feel heavy and your body feels older than it should, take beetroot.

If your circulation is poor, take beetroot.

If your stamina isn't what it used to be, take beetroot.

If you feel out of breath doing things that never used to wind you, take beetroot.

If you're 40 and wake up without energy, take beetroot.

Throw away the detox teas, energy drinks, and trendy supplements. Listen to me carefully.

Just focus on getting pure beetroot.

Drinking beet juice is not the same as taking organic beetroot because you strip away the fibers.

Now you might ask, why beetroot?

Because beetroot is very rich in natural nitrates. As you age, your body produces less nitric oxide — the molecule that helps keep blood vessels relaxed and circulation flowing properly. Beetroot's natural nitrates help your body support healthy nitric oxide levels, which promotes better circulation, supports cardiovascular health, and helps restore the steady energy your body is supposed to have.

But before you go buy any beetroot, there's one thing you need to know. Some supplements aren't effective — too weak, too low in dose, mixed with fillers. To know your beetroot is pure and potent, it should be certified by independent laboratories here in the United States.

Rosabella meets that standard with every batch. Each serving delivers 1300mg of cold-extracted organic beetroot — nothing else.

Thousands of reviews. 90-day money-back guarantee. Tap the orange cart below while it's still in stock.

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#7 by impressions Good

### Library ID 1321663959883310

Started
  May 16, 2026
Running
  56 days
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Active older-adult imagery aligns with the stamina message and feels believable.

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My husband's hands had been cold for two winters. Then they weren't.

My name is Kathleen.

People have called me Kathy since I was a girl.

I am sixty-three.

I live in a small house outside Portland, Maine, with my husband, Roger.

Roger is sixty-five.

He was a commercial fisherman for forty-one years, mostly on lobster boats out of small harbors along the southern Maine coast.

He retired three years ago.

He retired the year his back finally told him it was retired, which was about ten years after his back had started telling him it was retired.

We have two grown daughters. One is in Boston, one is in Burlington.

I retired four years ago, after twenty-nine years as the children's librarian at our town public library.

We were, on paper, where two careful people from a working coastal town in their sixties hope to be.

I want to tell you something about Roger that I want you to hold while you read this.

Roger has had rough hands for as long as I have known him.

He started on the boats when he was twenty-two.

Forty-one years of lobster traps, ropes, salt water, cold wind, wet gloves, and wet hands in winter.

His hands have never been the soft hands of a man who works inside.

They have always been the hands of a man who works outside, on the water, in the cold.

I knew that before I married him.

It came with the man.

I am telling you that because what follows is not a story about hands that were always warm and that suddenly were not.

It is a story about hands that have been a certain way for forty years and that, somewhere in the last two winters, became a quieter version of themselves.

About a man whose circulation was always something we both noticed a little, and that we had both started to notice a little more.

For the last two winters, my husband — sixty-five years old, on no prescription medications, with a doctor who tells him at every annual visit that his bloodwork is in the ranges he wants it in — has been quietly cold in a way he was not before.

I am going to tell you what I mean.

It looked like this.

It looked like the woodshed run.

We heat partly with wood. Roger has been bringing in the wood from the shed every morning in winter for twenty-six years.

The shed is forty paces from the kitchen door.

The job takes twelve minutes if you load the canvas carrier properly.

Roger had been a twelve-minute wood man for twenty-six years.

For the last two winters, he had been wearing gloves on a five-minute trip and coming back inside with his hands tucked under his armpits, asking me to make the tea hot.

He had not said anything about it.

I had been pretending not to notice him asking me to make the tea hot.

It looked like Roger's feet.

Roger had not worn socks to bed in our forty years together.

The previous January he had started wearing wool socks to bed.

Just on the cold nights.

Then on all nights from November through March.

I had not asked him about the socks.

I had bought him a second pair, quietly, and washed them with mine, and put them in his drawer.

It looked like the mailbox.

Our mailbox is at the end of our driveway, about two hundred yards from the house.

Roger had walked down to the mailbox every afternoon for thirty-one years.

He had been doing it more slowly for the last two years.

Hands in his pockets.

Shoulders a little higher.

I had been watching him from the kitchen window with my coffee and pretending not to watch him.

It looked like the armchair.

Roger had been sitting in his armchair under a wool blanket from the back of the couch for the better part of two winters.

The house was warm.

He was wearing a flannel shirt.

He was under a blanket anyway.

None of it was alarming.

He had been to Dr. Walsh — a careful man we have both been seeing for fourteen years — for his annual physical the previous spring.

Bloodwork in the ranges Dr. Walsh wanted them in.

No medications. No concerns. No flags.

Roger was, by every measure anyone could see on his chart, a sixty-five-year-old man in fine shape who had retired three years earlier after a long career outdoors.

But the man I had been married to for forty years had been cold in our own house for two winters.

I knew it.

He knew it.

We had not said it to each other.

I started going to our town farmers market on Saturday mornings about six years ago.

It is a small market.

Twelve booths.

Cheese, eggs, bread, vegetables in season, flowers from a small farm a few miles west of us, honey, jam, and a man who sells smoked fish.

I go for the cheese and the bread mostly.

I had been nodding for the better part of two years at the woman who runs the flower booth.

Her name is Janet.

I knew that from her booth sign.

She was a few years older than me, I would guess.

We had said hello at the start of every Saturday and goodbye at the end of every Saturday and we had not really talked.

That kind of friendship is its own thing.

You can have it with another woman for two years at a farmers market without ever knowing very much about her.

The Saturday in January was a Saturday like every other Saturday, except colder than most.

It was twelve degrees with a wind off the water.

I had come down for the cheese.

The cheese man was late.

His van had broken down on the highway. He would be there by ten-fifteen, his wife had texted around to the booths.

I had thirty minutes to wait.

I was standing under the small canvas awning Janet had set up over her booth, stamping my feet to keep warm.

There were not many flowers in January. She had some small bunches of dried lavender, a few jars of dried hydrangea, and three small pots of paperwhite narcissus that had bloomed early in her greenhouse.

She had seen me stamping my feet for ten minutes.

She turned to me and she said: Kathy, would you like some tea? I have a thermos. I will not have time to drink it before the morning is over.

I said yes.

She poured me a paper cup of hot black tea with a little honey in it.

I held it with both hands.

We talked.

We talked about the cold.

We talked about the cheese man being late.

We talked about her flowers and the greenhouse she and her husband had built three winters ago.

We talked about my daughters.

She told me about her husband.

She said his name was Carl.

She told me Carl was sixty-eight.

She told me he had done construction for forty years and had quit because his knees had quit before he did.

She told me they had started the flower farm together fifteen years ago, mostly because Carl needed something to do with his hands that was not as hard on his body as a hammer all day.

I listened.

I sipped the tea.

Then she said something I have been thinking about every day since.

She said: Kathy, I have been wanting to ask you for a few months. Is Roger all right? I have noticed he stopped coming down to the market with you about a year ago. I am not asking to pry. I am asking because I have been there.

I sat with that for a moment.

I looked at the cup in my hands.

I said: he is not unwell. His doctor is happy with him. His numbers are fine. But he has been cold for two winters. He has been slower for two winters. He has been quieter in his own chair under a blanket in a warm house for two winters. I do not know how to say it any plainer than that.

Janet was quiet for a long minute.

Then she said: I had been holding Carl's cold hands for three winters. I had been telling myself that was sixty-three. It turned out it was something quieter than that.

She told me about Carl.

She told me that for three winters after Carl turned sixty, he had quietly become a man whose hands she could not warm.

She told me she had stopped trying to warm them somewhere in there because the trying was harder on her than the cold was on him.

She told me she had been telling herself it was the weather.

She told me she had been telling herself it was sixty-three.

She told me she had been telling herself a great many things for three years.

Then she said: about five years ago, I added one small thing to Carl's mornings. I read for a month before I added it. I talked to his doctor and to his pharmacist before I added it. I want to be careful with you about what I say next, because Carl is one man and you are looking at one man and bodies are different.

But Carl has been more himself for the last five years than he was for the three years before that. He has been doing the small daily things he had quietly stopped doing. He has been a man whose hands I do not flinch from anymore.

She said it without performance.

She said it the way a woman says something at a farmers market in January in twelve-degree weather to another woman who is standing under her awning with a paper cup of tea.

She wasn't selling me anything.

She was just telling me.

I asked her what she had added.

She said it was a beetroot capsule.

She said the brand was called Rosabella.

She said she had picked it because the small company that made it cold-pressed the beetroot at low temperatures rather than processing it with heat, and because Carl's doctor had specifically said that how the supplement was processed mattered for what made it from the field into the capsule.

The cheese man pulled into the lot at ten-twelve.

I thanked Janet for the tea.

She put her hand on my arm before I left.

She said: please call Roger's pharmacist before you add anything. That is the only thing I am going to be insistent about. Promise me.

I promised her.

I bought my cheese.

I drove home thinking about Janet.

I drove the rest of that week thinking about Janet.

By the weekend, I was thinking about what I was going to do.

I am, by temperament, a careful person.

A children's librarian for twenty-nine years is, almost by definition, a careful person.

I do not add things to my body or to my husband's body without understanding what I am adding.

I went home and I started reading.

I read for almost three weeks.

I read about beetroot.

I read about the deep crimson pigment in the root.

It is called betalain.

It is the color that stains your cutting board for three days.

It is also, according to a long and patient body of research the cardiovascular community has been quietly building for decades, one of the more potent antioxidants in the food supply.

I read about the long, slowly built relationship the structure-function research has had with this vegetable.

In the context of supporting healthy circulation.

Supporting cardiovascular wellness.

Supporting the body's own cellular energy.

In people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

None of what I read was a fireworks story.

It was the opposite of one.

It was a vegetable that has been quietly studied for a long time by careful people who were not making outlandish claims.

The language being used in the careful, structure-function corner of the conversation was the language I had been quietly looking for.

Supports healthy circulation.

Not improves circulation.

Not fixes cold hands.

Not treats poor circulation.

Just supports.

In people whose numbers are already in the ranges their doctors want them in.

That was the shape of the language I had been hoping to find.

I read about the cold-press, too.

The chemistry is straightforward.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive.

If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella cold-presses at low temperatures because they want as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

That is a slower way to make a supplement.

It costs them more.

At sixty-three, after almost three decades of paying attention to small operations in our town — small publishers, small bookstores, small libraries — I have come to pay close attention to the small decisions companies make when no one is watching.

Those decisions tell you everything.

The other thing I liked was the simplicity.

Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water.

I have a husband.

I have a small house in southern Maine.

I have a Saturday farmers market.

I am not interested in a protocol that requires its own shelf.

Now I need to tell you the most important part of this letter.

I made Janet a promise at the market.

I kept it.

Before I added anything to what Roger was already taking, I called his pharmacist.

His name is Chris.

He has been the pharmacist at the small independent pharmacy in our town for thirteen years.

I have been filling our prescriptions there for the entire thirteen years.

I called him for a specific reason.

Roger is on no prescription medications.

He takes a multivitamin and a vitamin D.

I called Chris anyway.

I called because I am a careful person and because I wanted somebody who knew what was on Roger's record to confirm that adding a beetroot capsule to a multivitamin was the right thing to do at his age.

Chris pulled up Roger's profile.

He confirmed there were no concerns at the dosage on the label.

He told me Roger could take it in the morning with his coffee the way the bottle suggested.

He told me to call him back if Dr. Walsh ever started Roger on any prescription medication in the future, because the conversation would be different at that point.

He told me, before he got off the phone, that he wished more of his patients made the call I had just made.

I also called Dr. Walsh's office that week.

I left a message with his nurse, with the same information.

She called me back the next day to tell me Dr. Walsh had no concerns about Roger adding it at the dosage on the label.

I want to say something now, plainly, to every reader of this letter.

If your husband — or your wife, or you yourself — is on any prescription medication, especially anything cardiovascular, please make the call before you add anything new.

I made two calls.

Roger was on nothing.

I would have made three if he had been on a cardiovascular medication.

So should you.

The two minutes the call takes is the most important two minutes of your engagement with any supplement.

I told Roger that night.

I told him about the market.

About Janet.

About the cold tea I had not had.

About Chris and Dr. Walsh's office.

I told him I wanted him to try it for me.

He looked at the bottle.

He looked at me.

We have been married forty years.

He knows when I am asking something that matters.

Chris said it was alright?

He said it was a sensible thing to add at my dose, which is no dose of anything else.

And Dr. Walsh?

The same.

He nodded once.

Alright. For you.

In the morning I set two capsules on a saucer next to his coffee.

He took them with his first sip.

I did not say anything more about it.

He started on a Monday.

The first two weeks he felt nothing in particular.

I had read enough alongside what Janet had told me to know that bodies are different.

Some people notice something within the first week or two.

Some take much longer.

Some don't notice much at all.

I was prepared to land in any of those camps.

I was prepared to be honest with myself about the result.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly.

The first thing I noticed, around week six, was the woodshed.

It was a Saturday morning in February.

It was nineteen degrees outside.

I was at the kitchen window with my coffee.

Roger came in from the woodshed with a full canvas carrier of cordwood.

He set it down on the hearth.

He pulled off his gloves.

He held his hands out toward the woodstove for a moment, the way he always had.

Then he turned around and walked back out to the shed for a second load.

He came back five minutes later with the second carrier.

He set it down.

He didn't hold his hands toward the stove that time.

He did not ask me to make the tea hot.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of the tea I had already made and he drank it at the temperature it was at.

I did not say anything about it.

I did not want to make a thing of it.

I had read enough not to make a thing of one observation.

The second thing I noticed, around week nine, was the socks.

It was a Tuesday night in early March.

I was getting into bed.

I noticed Roger's feet under the covers as I climbed in.

His feet were bare.

The wool socks he had been wearing every night for over a year were folded on top of his dresser.

He had not been wearing them for almost a week.

I had not realized until that night.

I did not say anything about it.

I curled up on my side and I went to sleep with the man I had been married to for forty years sleeping next to me, both of us with bare feet, for the first time in two winters.

The third thing I noticed was the boat.

We have a small seventeen-foot skiff that Roger used to take out on summer weekends to fish for striped bass.

He had stopped taking it out two years ago.

He had told me he just did not feel up to dragging the trailer down to the launch and back.

The boat had been under a tarp in our driveway for two summers.

It was a Saturday morning in May, around month four.

I came downstairs at seven.

The tarp was off the boat.

Roger was at the side of the boat with the cover off the outboard motor, with a wrench in one hand and a rag in the other.

He had been a fisherman for forty-one years.

He knew an outboard the way most men know their own wristwatch.

He worked on that motor for two hours.

At nine he came inside and asked if I wanted to come down to the launch with him in the afternoon and watch him put it in the water for the first time in two summers.

I went with him.

He took the boat out by himself for forty-five minutes while I sat in the truck and read.

He came back in with a small bluefish.

He filleted it on the dock the way he had always filleted small fish, in about two minutes, with steady hands.

I want to be careful with what I am telling you.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of those things on its own.

Roger had been walking down to the mailbox a little more deliberately in the weeks after the market.

He had started, on his own, after that Saturday in January, to come with me to the cheese booth most weekends.

He had been moving more deliberately for several weeks before the woodshed and the socks and the boat.

Something had unlocked in him the night I told him about Janet that had nothing to do with a capsule on a saucer.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a wife finally tells her husband what she had been pretending not to see for two winters.

All I am telling you is that he added one small thing to a long list of small things he was newly doing.

He kept everything else exactly the same.

And a stretch of months followed that was qualitatively different from the two winters that had preceded it.

That is the honest version.

I would not give you a cleaner one.

Roger went into Dr. Walsh's office for his annual physical about seven months after he started.

Bloodwork the week before.

Dr. Walsh studied the results.

He looked at Roger.

He said: whatever you are doing, your numbers are in better shape than they have been since you retired. Keep doing it.

Roger told him about the boat.

About the mailbox.

About the beetroot.

Dr. Walsh nodded.

He said: that is a sensible thing to add at your age. There is good research on antioxidant support. Keep doing what you are doing, and come back at the usual time.

Roger called me from the parking lot.

He didn't say anything at first.

Then he said: Kathy. I think I might be alright.

I was standing in our kitchen.

I sat down at the table.

I cried the way a woman cries when something she thought was leaving comes back to her instead.

I see Janet most Saturdays at the market.

She has a small ritual now.

We meet at her booth around eight-thirty.

She pours me tea from her thermos if she has it.

I tell her small things about Roger and she tells me small things about Carl and the morning moves the way Saturday mornings move.

I owe her one for the rest of my life.

She does not act like I do.

I am telling you all of this because I think you might be where I was last January.

Watching someone you love quietly become cold in his own house.

Watching the small things he used to do quietly stop being things he does.

Watching his doctor look at his chart, and smile at his numbers, and tell you everything is fine.

If you have been telling yourself it is the winter, or the sixties, or just aging, maybe it is worth asking whether there is one small additive thing that might support what his body is already trying to do.

Not as a replacement for anything his doctor has him on.

Just as a question.

A thing to add.

A conversation to have at his next appointment.

Here is how I think about Rosabella now, in the words I would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, supporting cardiovascular wellness, and supporting the body's own cellular energy.

In people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is not a substitute for a medication.

It is not a treatment for cold hands.

It is not a treatment for cold feet.

It is not a treatment for poor circulation, or for any specific circulatory condition.

It is one small thing you add to the long list of things he is already doing for himself, alongside everything else.

Please call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before you add it.

If he is on any blood pressure medication, cholesterol medication, or anything cardiovascular at all, this is non-negotiable.

I called Chris.

I called Dr. Walsh's office.

I would not have added anything to a prescription without those calls.

Neither should you.

The people who know his chart will tell you in two minutes whether the supplement is safe to add given what he is already taking.

I am a sixty-three-year-old retired children's librarian in southern Maine.

I am not the person to ask.

His pharmacist or his doctor is.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee.

If you are not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing your mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to anything you have to prove.

If you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied.

That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule.

There are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have.

Thank you for reading this far.

I hope something here was useful to you.

I hope, somewhere today, your own Janet is standing under a small canvas awning at a market in your town, waiting for you to come stamp your feet in front of her booth.

— Kathy

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second.

The betalain pigment — the deep crimson, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive.

That is the chemistry of the molecule.

Process beetroot the standard way, with heat, and you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella chose the slow way.

Cold-press. Low temperatures. More of the compound through to the capsule.

It costs them money. It costs them time.

They made the choice anyway.

At sixty-three, after a lifetime of paying attention to how careful people do careful work, I have come to believe that the small decisions companies make when no one is watching tell you everything.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water.

That is the entire protocol.

No powder to mix.

No afternoon dose to remember.

No schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard.

Roger keeps the bottle on the counter next to the coffee maker.

He takes the capsules with his first sip.

He makes the coffee now.

That has been the rhythm of our morning for almost a year.

We have earned a simple morning.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to.

Please.

Call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before you add anything new to what he is already taking.

Especially if he is on a blood pressure medication, a cholesterol medication, or anything cardiovascular.

They have his whole picture in front of them.

I have written you a letter.

There is a difference, and the difference matters.

The two minutes it takes to ask are the most important two minutes of your engagement with any supplement.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed.

Ninety days. Any reason at all.

You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about his numbers, not about how he feels.

If he tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied.

They send the money back.

That is the whole policy.

A small-company policy.

The kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The sentence Janet said to me under her canvas awning at the market — I had been holding Carl's cold hands for three winters; I had been telling myself that was sixty-three; it turned out it was something quieter than that — has been with me every day for almost a year.

I had been doing that exact thing about Roger for two winters.

I had not realized, until Janet said it, what I had been doing.

I had been holding his hands.

I had been telling myself it was the winter.

I had been telling myself it was the sixties.

I had been telling myself it was the lobster boats.

I had been telling myself a lot of things, the way wives do, to keep from saying out loud the small quiet thing that is happening to a man who has gotten quieter.

If you are a woman standing in your kitchen on a winter morning, watching the man you love come in from a five-minute trip to the woodshed with his hands tucked under his arms, you are not imagining the dimming.

You are not being dramatic.

You are reading the man.

I hope you find your own Janet under her own canvas awning at your own market.

I hope you accept the tea she offers you.

I hope you read carefully.

I hope you make the call before you add anything.

I hope, in a year from now, you are standing at your kitchen window on a Saturday morning, watching the man you love come back from the shed twice without holding his hands toward the stove.

I hope that for you.

That is the whole reason I wrote this.

— K.W

DISCLAIMER

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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My husband had been a man who came home from work whistling. For about two years, I watched him quietly stop whistling, and I did not know how to bring it up.

I have been married to David for thirty-four years.

My name is Margaret. We have lived in the same house in the Hudson Valley for twenty-eight of those years, raised two daughters here, and watched the maples in our front yard grow from the saplings David planted the spring after we moved in.

David is sixty-one. He has worked for the same regional accounting firm for thirty-seven years, the last eleven as a partner. He is, by every measure that matters, a good man.

I am telling you that because the story I am going to tell you does not make sense if you do not know what kind of man David has been.

David came home from work whistling for thirty-three years.

I do not mean that as a figure of speech. I mean it literally.

He came in the back door at six-fifteen, hung his keys on the hook, and started whistling something — half the time it was a song from the radio that morning, half the time it was nothing in particular, just the sound of a man who was glad to be home.

I would hear it from the kitchen and I would know he was back, and I would call out, David, and he would call back, Margaret, and that was the small daily ritual of our marriage for thirty-three years.

About two years ago, the whistling started getting quieter.

I noticed it the way you notice these things, which is over a long period of time, in small pieces, none of which I would have been able to point to individually.

By the end of the first year, the whistling had mostly stopped.

By the end of the second year, David was coming home at six-fifteen, hanging up his keys, and going straight to the chair in the living room. Quiet. He would say hi, sweetheart, and kiss the top of my head, but the whistling was gone.

The whistling was not the only thing.

He stopped suggesting the small Saturday outings we used to take.

We have an antique-store loop we have been doing for twenty years — three small towns up the river from us, a few hours on the road, a small lunch somewhere along the way. David used to plan it on Friday nights. He stopped planning it.

He stopped going to his Tuesday-night basketball at the community center. He had been playing pickup with the same group of men, mostly his age, for fourteen years. He stopped going one Tuesday and then stopped going the next Tuesday and then never went back, and when I asked him about it he said his knee had been bothering him, which was partly true but not the whole truth.

He stopped doing the small house projects he used to do on Sunday afternoons. The trim on the back porch had needed repainting for a year and a half. The fence by the driveway had been leaning for nine months.

He stopped reading at night. He had been a reader for thirty-four years.

He stopped, in the small daily ways a wife notices, being the David I had married.

I noticed all of it. He did not.

I want to be clear that none of this was sudden. None of it was dramatic. He was not depressed. He was not sick. His annual physical, which he had at fifty-nine and then again at sixty, came back clean both times. His doctor told him he was in good shape for sixty. He was on a low-dose blood pressure medication that had been working for years and a low-dose cholesterol medication his doctor had started him on at fifty-eight, both of which were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

There was no chart-level problem to fix.

There was just a man who had quietly stopped whistling.

The thing that finally got me to say something out loud happened in late October. About fourteen months ago.

Our older daughter, Anne, was getting married. The wedding was in Vermont. We drove up the Friday before and had dinner with the rehearsal party at a restaurant on the lake.

David was seated next to Anne's father-in-law-to-be, a man named Tom who is about ten years older than David — early seventies, retired civil engineer, very fit, the kind of man who shows up to a rehearsal dinner having walked the four miles from his hotel and not mentioning that he walked the four miles from his hotel.

I was at the other end of the table.

I watched David and Tom talk for about half an hour. At first the conversation was the kind of thing the fathers of the bride and groom talk about — the kids, the wedding logistics, the weather forecast for Saturday. Then it became something else.

I could not hear what they were saying. But I watched David's face change at some point in that conversation, in a way I had not seen his face change in two years. He was listening to Tom in a way that was not the way David had been listening to anybody.

After dinner, on the walk back to our room at the inn, I asked David what they had been talking about.

He was quiet for a minute.

He said, Tom said something to me that I have been thinking about all evening.

I asked him what.

He said: Tom asked me how I was doing. Not the polite way. The other way. And then he told me what he had been doing for the last three years to feel like himself again. He said it took him a while to admit to himself that he had been needing to do something. He said he wished he had said something to his wife sooner.

I asked David if Tom had told him what he had been doing.

David said yes.

He said the most important thing Tom had told him was to go to his doctor and have the conversation he had been avoiding.

He told me Tom had told him about a supplement — a beetroot capsule, of all things — that Tom had added to his mornings after talking to his own doctor about it. Tom had told David the brand was Rosabella and that he had picked it because the small company cold-pressed the beetroot rather than processing it with heat.

He told David that the supplement was not the point. The point was the appointment.

David and I walked the rest of the way back to the inn without saying anything.

When we got to the room, he sat on the edge of the bed and he told me, for the first time in two years, that he had been noticing the same things in himself that I had been noticing about him, and that he had not known how to say so.

I held his hand for a long time.

We talked for almost two hours that night.

The next morning, our daughter got married.

The Monday after we got back from Vermont, David called his doctor's office and made an appointment.

I want to tell you something about that appointment that matters for this letter, because David told me about it on the drive home and I have been thinking about it ever since.

His doctor — a woman in her fifties he had been seeing for fifteen years — did not make a face. She did not rush him. She asked him careful questions. She ran the bloodwork she wanted to run. She looked at his medications and confirmed both the blood pressure medication and the cholesterol medication were doing what they were supposed to be doing for him. She talked to him for a long time about circulation, generally, and about how circulation matters for a great many functions of the body, and about how the cardiovascular care he was already receiving was doing what it was supposed to be doing.

She talked through the medical options he had with him at the kind of level a doctor talks a patient through medical options.

She told him to think about it.

She told him there was no rush.

She told him to come back when he had thought about it.

She told him, before he left, that if he ever wanted to add anything new to what he was already taking — anything at all, from any source — to call her or the nurse line first, especially given the cardiovascular medications he was on.

David came home that evening and we talked for another long evening about what he was going to do.

He did not decide that night.

He decided three weeks later, after he had read carefully about a number of things, including the supplement Tom had mentioned at the rehearsal dinner.

David read about beetroot the way David reads about anything, which is carefully, with a notepad, in the evenings, at the kitchen table.

He read about the deep crimson pigment called betalain — the color that stains your cutting board for three days.

He read about the dietary nitrates that are naturally present in the root.

He read about the long, patient relationship the cardiovascular research community has had with this vegetable for decades, in the context of supporting healthy circulation and cardiovascular wellness.

None of what he read was a fireworks story. He read it out loud to me at the kitchen table on several evenings, and I want to tell you what struck both of us about what he was reading. The language being used was language we had not been hearing in the supplement aisle of the drugstore. It was supports healthy circulation, supports cardiovascular wellness, supports the body's own cellular energy — in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

Not fixes anything.

Not replaces what your doctor has you on.

Not lowers anything.

David said, on one of those evenings at the kitchen table, that it was the first language he had read in a supplement context that he could square with how his doctor talked about his cardiovascular care.

He picked Rosabella — the brand Tom had mentioned — and he picked it because the cold-press chemistry he had read about made sense to him.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive. Process beetroot the standard way, with heat, and you lose some of the compound to the heat. Rosabella cold-presses the root at low temperatures because they want as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

David is an accountant. He pays attention to small decisions companies make when no one is watching. The cold-press told him something about who he was dealing with.

The other thing he liked was the simplicity. Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water. David likes things that fit on the counter next to the coffee.

Now I want to tell you about the call he made before he started taking it, because it is the most important part of this letter.

His doctor had told him, at the appointment, to call her office before he added anything new to what he was already taking.

He called.

He spoke to the nurse line. They looked at his chart. They saw his blood pressure medication. They saw his cholesterol medication. They asked him about the supplement, the dose, the protocol. They put him on hold while they checked with his doctor. They called him back the same afternoon.

The nurse told him his doctor had no concerns about adding it. She told him to keep doing what he was doing on the medication side. She told him not to change anything else without his doctor in the room.

I want to say something now, on behalf of David and on behalf of myself.

If your husband — or your father, or your brother, or whoever it is you are watching from across the kitchen — is on any prescription medication for blood pressure, cholesterol, or anything cardiovascular, please make sure he calls his pharmacist or his doctor's office before he adds anything new.

This is not optional.

Beetroot supplements can interact with cardiovascular medications. The interaction is not necessarily anything. But it depends on the medication, the dose, what else he is taking, and what his prescribing physician would want for him.

That is exactly the kind of small, specific, individualized question that the people who know his chart can answer in two minutes — and that we, as wives, are not qualified to answer for him.

David made the call. He would not have added anything to his prescriptions without that call.

If your husband is the kind of man who would skip the call, please ask him to make it anyway. Sit with him while he makes it if you have to. The two minutes are worth every second.

David was adding the beetroot to his medications.

Not stopping anything. Not adjusting anything. Not changing anything else.

The medications continued, exactly as his doctor had them set, throughout everything that follows in this letter.

David started on a Monday.

The first two weeks I did not notice anything in particular. Neither did he. We had read enough alongside what Tom had said to know that bodies are different — some people notice something within the first week or two, some people take much longer, some people don't notice much at all — and we had both braced ourselves for any of those outcomes.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly. I was the one watching. David was not.

The first thing I noticed, around week four, was the whistling.

Not the way it had been for thirty-three years. Not at six-fifteen at the back door.

It was small. It was at the bathroom sink one Saturday morning while he was shaving. He was whistling something I did not recognize. He had not been whistling at the bathroom sink for two years.

I did not say anything. I made a quiet note.

The second thing I noticed, in week five or six, was that he started leaving the chair in the living room.

He had been going straight to that chair after work, every evening, for two years. He would sit, read the paper, and eventually come to dinner. Most evenings, after dinner, he would go back to the chair until bedtime.

Around week five, I noticed he had not gone back to the chair after dinner. He had come into the kitchen while I was finishing the dishes, and he had taken a dish towel from the drawer the way he used to, and we had finished the dishes together, the way we had done it for thirty years before the chair years.

We did not make a thing of it.

The next evening, he was in the kitchen again.

The third thing I noticed was the porch.

In late spring, about eight or nine weeks in, David was outside on a Saturday morning with the small paint-scraper and the porch trim that had been waiting for a year and a half. He spent most of the day out there. He came in for lunch with paint on his forearms, which is a sight I had been missing without realizing I had been missing it.

By the end of that summer, he had painted the trim, fixed the leaning fence, replaced the cracked board on the back steps, and replanted the side bed of the front yard that had gone weedy.

He had not done any of those things in two years.

The fourth thing I noticed was the wedding photos.

Our daughter had her photographer send us a thumb drive with the wedding photos about three months after the wedding. David and I sat on the couch on a Sunday afternoon and looked through them.

There is a picture, somewhere in the middle of the set, of David and me on the dance floor at the reception, taken from a few feet away. David is looking at me with the kind of half-smile he had on his face on most days for the first thirty-one years of our marriage and that had not been on his face much during the second of those two years.

I had not seen that half-smile in a photograph for some time.

We sat with the photo for a moment. He squeezed my hand. We did not say anything.

The whistling was back. The dishes were back. The porch was back. The half-smile was back.

David was back.

I want to be careful with what I am telling you now, because I am writing this to women I do not know, and I do not want to overstate anything.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of those things on its own.

David had gone to his doctor. He had told his doctor the truth about how he had been feeling. He had been on his medications, and the medications continued to do what they had been doing. He had been walking more — we had started taking the dog out together after dinner in the months after the rehearsal-dinner conversation with Tom. He had been getting to bed at a more regular hour. He had finally told me what had been quietly going on for two years.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a man finally stops avoiding the things he has been avoiding.

All I am telling you is that David added one small thing to a long list of things he was already doing — including the medications his doctor has him on — and a stretch of months followed that was qualitatively different from the two years that had preceded it.

That is the honest version. I would not trust anyone who gave you a cleaner one.

David went back to his doctor at his next annual physical, about seven months after the rehearsal dinner.

She ran the bloodwork. It was where she wanted it, in the same ranges it had been the year before.

She told him to keep doing what he was doing.

She told him not to change a thing.

He drove home from the appointment and we went out for dinner that night at the small restaurant we used to go to on our anniversary.

He whistled in the car on the way home.

If you are reading this and you are watching your own husband, or someone you love, in the way I had been watching David for two years — quietly, without quite knowing what to say, adjusting around small daily changes that you did not know how to name — I want to say a few things to you carefully.

I do not know your husband. I do not know his bloodwork or his medications or what his doctor has said.

Bodies are different. Some men notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some men take much longer. Some men don't notice much at all.

That is the honest version, and anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how David and I think about Rosabella now, in the words we would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, cardiovascular wellness, and the body's own cellular energy, in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is not a substitute for a blood pressure medication. It is not a substitute for a cholesterol medication. It is not a substitute for anything his doctor has him on.

It is one small thing he adds to the long list of things he is already doing for himself, alongside everything else.

Please — and I mean this — have him call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before he adds it.

If he is on any cardiovascular medication, this is non-negotiable.

If your husband is the kind of man who would skip that call, please ask him to make it anyway. The people who know his chart will tell him in two minutes whether the supplement is safe for him to add.

I am a sixty-year-old wife in the Hudson Valley. I am not the person to ask. His pharmacist or his doctor is.

The other thing I want to ask of you — and this is the part of this letter that matters more than the supplement — is that if your husband has not yet had the conversation that David had with his doctor, please find a way for him to have it.

The point is not Rosabella. The point is the appointment.

David did not start whistling again because of a capsule. He started whistling again because he finally went to his doctor about something he had been carrying for two years, and because the doctor took him seriously, and because we then made a number of small careful changes alongside his existing medical care — one of which was adding Rosabella.

The appointment is the thing.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee.

If he is not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing his mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to his bloodwork. It is not tied to anything he has to prove to anybody. If he is not satisfied, he is not satisfied. That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule, which means there are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision for someone you love — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far. I hope something here was useful to you and to him.

— Margaret

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second.

The betalain pigment — the deep red, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive.

Process beetroot the standard way, with heat, and you lose some of the compound to the heat.

Rosabella chose the slow way. Cold-press, low temperatures, more of the compound through to the capsule.

It costs them money and time. They made the choice anyway.

David, the accountant, pays attention to that kind of choice.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water.

That is the entire protocol. No powder to mix. No afternoon dose to remember. No schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard.

David keeps the bottle on the kitchen counter next to his blood pressure medication and his cholesterol medication. He takes all three at the same time, with his coffee, before he leaves for work.

That has been the rhythm of his morning for nine months.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to.

Please.

If your husband is on any cardiovascular medication, have him call his pharmacist or his doctor's office before he adds anything new.

If he won't, please make the call yourself and ask them what they would tell him.

The people who know his chart have his whole picture.

I have written you a letter.

There is a difference, and the difference matters.

The two minutes are the most important two minutes of any addition he might make.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed.

Ninety days. Any reason at all.

You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about anyone's numbers, not about how anyone feels.

If he tried it and he is not satisfied, he is not satisfied, and they send the money back.

That is the whole policy. A small-company policy. The kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Tom said to David at the rehearsal dinner — the supplement is not the point. The point is the appointment — has stayed with me for over a year now.

It is the truest sentence anyone has said to my husband about his health in his entire adult life.

If your husband has been quietly carrying something for a long time, and you have been quietly adjusting around it without knowing what to say, I hope you find your version of Tom at the rehearsal dinner.

If you don't find one, I hope this letter is a small piece of it.

I hope your husband goes to his doctor.

I hope his doctor takes him seriously.

I hope, one evening eight or ten months from now, you hear him whistling at the bathroom sink while he shaves, and you know, in the small daily way that wives know things, that he is becoming more like himself again.

I hope that for you.

That is the whole reason I wrote this letter.

— M.

DISCLAIMER

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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My wife and I have been married for thirty-eight years.

For about three of them, I had been slowly disappearing on her.

And I had not had the courage to tell her so.

I'm sixty-three years old.

We met at the community college where she was studying to be a paralegal and I was finishing my associate's in HVAC, and we got married eighteen months later, which is something neither of us recommends to our children.

It worked out for us. It mostly doesn't.

The disappearing I'm talking about did not happen all at once.

It almost never does.

It happened the way these things happen — in small pieces over a long time, none of which I noticed individually, all of which I could see clearly when I finally turned around and looked at the three years behind me.

I had been less present at the dinner table.

Less interested in the small things Linda wanted to tell me about her day.

Less inclined to suggest the small Saturday-afternoon outings we used to take — the drive to the orchard, the antique mall in Quakertown, the diner near the lake.

I had been falling asleep in my chair earlier in the evening.

Quieter on long drives where we used to talk for hours.

I had been, in ways I could feel but not put a name to, a smaller version of the man I had been for the first thirty-five years of our marriage.

I had also been telling myself it was normal.

I told myself it was age. I told myself it was the stress at the HVAC company, the weight of the responsibilities I had taken on there that did not go away when I got home in the evening.

I told myself it was the sleep that wasn't as good as it used to be, and the back that ached in the morning the way it didn't when I was forty-five, and the long winter we'd had two years running.

And I told myself, in the part of my mind I do not usually visit, that it was something else too.

Something I did not want to look at directly.

Something I had been carrying quietly for two or three years and had not said to anyone — including Linda, including myself in any way that would have required me to do something about it.

I had not done anything about it.

I had thought about doing something about it.

I had not done anything.

This is the part of the letter where the story actually starts.

Because the disappearing went on for almost three years before anything changed.

And what changed it was a weekend on a farm in Lancaster County, and a man on a porch on a Friday night in October, and a sentence about a horse.

Linda and I have two grown daughters.

The older one, Rebecca, lives twenty minutes from us in the suburbs of Allentown and works for the school district.

The younger one, Hannah, lives outside Lititz in Lancaster County, where she married into an Old Order Mennonite family eleven years ago.

Hannah, when she was twenty-three, took a job in Lancaster County for the summer doing administrative work at a small farm-equipment cooperative.

She met a young man named Aaron there — quiet and deliberate the same way she was — and over about two years she made a series of decisions that her mother and I could not have predicted but that, in retrospect, we should have.

She joined the church. She married Aaron. She moved onto the farm his family had owned for four generations, twelve miles east of Lititz.

She and Aaron have four children now. Linda and I see them about six times a year.

I am telling you all of this because the man who is the reason for this letter is Aaron's father.

His name is Eli.

Eli is eighty-three years old.

I want you to sit with that number for a moment, because the rest of this letter depends on it.

He still works the farm.

Not the way his sons work it — his sons handle the heavy hauling and the long days now — but he works it.

He milks in the mornings beside Aaron. He repairs the small things that need repairing.

He goes out into the field at six o'clock in the morning in March and he goes out into the field at six o'clock in the morning in November and he comes in for the noon meal and he eats with the same appetite he has had for sixty years and he goes back out in the afternoon.

He is not infirm. He is not in decline.

He is eighty-three and he is, in the small ordinary way that tells you everything, present in his life.

That is the word I had been looking for, for three years.

Present.

Linda and I drove down to Lancaster County for our usual long weekend on a Friday afternoon in October two years ago.

It rained for most of the drive.

Linda fell asleep in the passenger seat the way she has fallen asleep in the passenger seat for thirty-eight years, and I drove the last hour listening to the radio with the volume low, thinking about how few long drives we had taken together that year.

We used to drive places. We used to take the long route home from Hannah's, through Reading, just to stretch out the day.

I had not done that in two years.

We had been driving down on Friday and back on Sunday, the most direct way both directions.

The difference was small. But it was a difference. And I had noticed it and said nothing.

We got to the farm a little before six. Hannah and Anna had supper waiting. Eli came in from the barn. The grandchildren ran around the kitchen the way grandchildren do.

After supper, the men sat on the front porch while the women cleaned the kitchen. That is how it goes on the farm, and Linda and I have learned, over eleven years, not to argue with the rhythm of a house that is not ours.

Aaron went out to check on something in the barn.

It was Eli and me on the porch.

Eli is a quiet man. He talks when he has something to say and he does not when he doesn't.

He had been watching me at supper. I had not been talkative. After we had sat in silence for about ten minutes, he said, in the careful way he says things:

George, you have been quiet this weekend in a way I have not seen you be quiet.

I will tell you what I told him, because I am going to ask you to extend me the same dignity I am extending to myself in telling it.

I told him I had been feeling for the past few years like I was slowly becoming a smaller version of myself, in ways I could not put my finger on.

I told him I had been telling myself it was age.

I told him I had been telling myself it was stress.

I told him I had not done anything about it because I had not known what to do.

Eli sat with that for a long time. He is not a man who rushes a response.

He said: I have been an old man for some time now, George. The body changes. That is not the question. The question is whether you are paying attention to your own body the way you would pay attention to a horse that wasn't pulling right.

I asked him what he meant.

He said: If a horse was off, you would know within a week. You would look at the harness. You would look at the feed. You would look at the legs. You would not tell yourself it was age and let the horse keep pulling.

I sat with that for a long time.

He said one more thing before Aaron came back from the barn.

He said: I am eighty-three. I am still on this farm because I have paid attention to this body the way I have paid attention to this land. The body is the land you live on, George. Tend it.

Aaron came back and we talked about the price of feed and the weather forecast, and that was the end of the conversation.

Eli did not bring it up again. He did not give me advice. He had said what he had to say and he let me sit with it — which is a thing that men of Eli's generation know how to do, and that men of my generation, in the world I come from, mostly don't.

Linda and I drove home on Sunday.

I took the long way through Reading.

We talked the whole drive.

I did not say anything to her about the conversation with Eli. I was not ready.

The Monday after we got back, I sat down at the kitchen table after work and started, for the first time in three years, actually paying attention to my own body.

I started where it made sense to me to start.

With reading.

I am sixty-three. I have spent twenty-six years running an HVAC company. I am not a man who jumps at the first thing he reads on the internet.

I read for three weeks. In the evenings, on the couch, with the dog at my feet, the way you read about something when you are taking it seriously.

I had heard about beetroot for years — at the diner, in the magazines Linda brings home from the grocery store, in the back of a newspaper health section I usually skipped past. I had never really looked into it.

I started there.

I read about the deep crimson pigment in beetroot. It is called betalain — the color that stains everything for two days. I read about the dietary nitrates that are naturally present in the root.

I read about the long, patient relationship the research community has had with this vegetable for decades, in the context of cardiovascular wellness and supporting healthy circulation.

None of what I read was a fireworks story.

It was the opposite of one.

It was a careful body of evidence, slowly built, by careful people who were not making outlandish claims.

I told Linda, somewhere in the middle of that three weeks, that I was reading about it.

I told her I was thinking about adding one small thing to what I was already doing in the mornings.

I told her about Eli on the porch, and the horse.

I had not told her any of what I had been carrying before that conversation. I should have told her years earlier. That is on me.

She listened the way she listens — without performance and without judgment — and at the end of it she said: thank you for telling me. What do you want to do?

I told her I wanted to think for another week or so.

She said okay.

After that week, I picked one of the brands I had read about.

A small company called Rosabella.

I picked it for one specific reason.

The betalain pigment is heat-sensitive. That is the chemistry of the molecule. If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat.

The people at Rosabella decided to cold-press the root at low temperatures because they wanted as much of the compound as possible to make it from the field into the capsule.

That is a slower way to make a supplement. It tells you something about who is running the operation.

The other thing I liked was the simplicity of it. Two capsules in the morning with a glass of water.

I am sixty-three and I have a job and a wife and a yard and four grandchildren under the age of nine. I am not interested in a protocol that requires its own shelf.

Before I started, I did something I want to tell you about clearly, because it is the most important thing in this letter.

I have been on a low-dose blood pressure medication for six years. A low-dose cholesterol medication for four.

I would not add anything new to what I was already taking without asking somebody who would know whether the new thing played safely with the old things.

So I called my pharmacist — the man at the counter at the pharmacy where I have been filling my prescriptions for nine years.

I told him what I was thinking about adding. I asked him plainly whether there was any reason not to, given what I was already on.

He pulled up my profile, looked at the medications and the dosages, and told me he had no concerns about adding beetroot in capsule form to what I was already taking.

He told me to keep doing what I was doing on the medication side. He told me not to change anything about the prescriptions without my doctor in the loop. He told me to call him again, or call my doctor's office, if I had any questions.

I want to say something now that I am going to say several times before this letter is over, because it is the only thing in this letter that matters more than anything else.

Whatever your doctor has you on, stay on.

Call your pharmacist or your doctor's office and ask before you add anything new.

Do not, under any circumstances, change a prescription on your own on the basis of what some man in Pennsylvania wrote in a letter you found on the internet.

Call somebody who knows what is on your chart. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

I was adding it to what I was already doing. Not stopping the blood pressure medication. Not stopping the cholesterol medication. Not changing anything else.

I started on a Tuesday.

I picked Tuesday because Monday felt like too much pressure.

The first two weeks, I felt nothing in particular.

I want to tell you that honestly, because the temptation in a letter like this one is to pretend something dramatic happened on day three.

Nothing dramatic happened on day three.

I had read enough to know that bodies are different — some people notice something within the first week or two, some people take much longer, some people don't notice much at all — and I had braced myself for any of those outcomes.

What I noticed, I noticed slowly, in pieces I did not connect at the time.

The first thing I noticed was that I was sitting through the evening news without falling asleep in my chair.

I had been falling asleep in my chair for the better part of two years.

After a few weeks, I was making it to the end of the broadcast. Sometime in the second month, I was making it to nine o'clock.

One night, a couple of months in, Linda and I sat on the couch watching a movie together at nine-thirty on a Saturday, the way we used to fifteen years ago.

I was awake for the whole thing.

The second thing I noticed was that I was driving the long way home from Hannah's.

Linda and I went down for Thanksgiving — a few weeks after I started — and on the Sunday we drove home through Reading, the way we used to.

I had suggested it without thinking about it.

Linda had looked at me sideways from the passenger seat and not said anything.

We stopped for coffee at a diner outside Pottstown. Sat in a booth for forty-five minutes. Talked about our grandchildren and about Eli, who Linda likes a great deal, and about a small kitchen renovation Linda had been wanting to do for two years that I had been quietly putting off.

By the time we got home, we had agreed to start the renovation in the spring.

The third thing I noticed was that I was present in my marriage in a way I had not been for some time.

I noticed it in the kitchen when Linda was telling me about her day, and I did not have to ask her to repeat what she had just said.

I noticed it in the car.

I noticed it on a Saturday afternoon in February when we drove out to look at tile samples and ended up taking the long way home and stopping at a small park I had not been to in twenty years.

I noticed it in the small daily ways that a long marriage works, when both people are actually there for it.

I had stopped being there for it without realizing I had stopped.

I was there for it again.

That was the gift.

I want to be very careful with what I am telling you here.

I am not telling you Rosabella did any of those things on its own.

I had finally told Linda what I had been carrying.

I had taken Eli's sentence about the horse seriously enough to start paying attention to my own body the way he had described.

I had been doing the walking I had been doing inconsistently for years, and I had started doing it more consistently.

I had been protecting my sleep more carefully.

There were several things changing at once, the way there are when a man finally decides to pay attention to something he has been not paying attention to for a long time.

All I am telling you is that I added one thing to a long list of things I was already doing, kept everything else exactly the same, and a quiet stretch of months followed that had not been preceded by an equally quiet stretch of months.

That is the honest version. I would not trust anyone who gave you a cleaner one.

That is the whole story.

I am writing this letter to men who are in the gap I was in — who have noticed something has drifted in their own lives in ways they have not been able to look at directly.

I want to tell you something plainly, one time.

Take Eli's sentence seriously.

Pay attention to your own body the way you would pay attention to a horse that wasn't pulling right.

Whatever paying attention looks like in your life — talking to your wife, talking to your doctor, reading carefully, making small honest changes — start there.

The point is not Rosabella.

The point is that you stop telling yourself it is just age and start paying attention.

If, somewhere down the road, paying attention takes you toward Rosabella specifically, I want to say a few things to you carefully, because I am aware that a letter like this can be read in a hurry by a man who is in a hurry to feel like himself again.

I do not know you. I do not know your bloodwork or your medications.

Bodies are different. Some men notice something within the first week or two of adding something like this. Some men take much longer. Some men don't notice much at all.

That is the honest version, and anyone offering you a cleaner one is selling you harder than I am.

Here is how Linda and I think about Rosabella now, in the words we would actually use.

It is something the body uses.

The research community talks about it in the context of supporting healthy circulation, cardiovascular wellness, and the body's own cellular energy — in people whose numbers are already in the range their doctors want them in.

It is not a fix for anything.

It is one small thing you add to the long list of things you are already doing for yourself.

Please — and I really do mean this, I am not saying it because somebody told me to — call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add it.

If you are on any medication for blood pressure, or cholesterol, or anything cardiovascular at all, this is non-negotiable.

The people who know what is on your chart will tell you in two minutes whether it makes sense for you to add.

I am a sixty-three-year-old man who spent a weekend on an Old Order Mennonite farm and finally started paying attention. I am not the person to ask. Your pharmacist or your doctor is.

The company has a ninety-day satisfaction guarantee. If you are not satisfied — for any reason at all, including just changing your mind — they refund you.

It is not tied to your bloodwork. It is not tied to anything you have to prove to anybody.

If you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied. That is the whole policy.

The beets are grown on a small operation that harvests on its own schedule, which means there are stretches when they are in stock and stretches when they are not.

I mention that not to push you — please do not let anybody push you into a health decision — but so that if you go to the site and they are out, you know why.

That is all I have. Thank you for reading this far. I hope something here was useful to you.

— George

P.S. I want to come back to the cold-press for a second, because I rushed past it. The betalain pigment — the deep red, the part the research community keeps circling back to — is heat-sensitive. If you process beetroot the standard way, with heat, you lose some of the compound to the heat. Rosabella chose the slow way. Cold-press, low temperatures, more of the compound through to the capsule. It costs them money and time. They made the choice anyway. That was a piece of why I picked them.

P.P.S. Two capsules. In the morning. With a glass of water. That is the entire protocol. No powder to mix, no afternoon dose to remember, no schedule taped to the inside of the cupboard door. I keep the bottle on the counter next to the coffee pot. Linda keeps the coffee pot full. That is the rhythm of our morning at sixty-three and at sixty-one and we have earned a simple one.

P.P.P.S. I am going to say it one more time, because I have to. Please. Whatever you take away from this letter, take this. Call your pharmacist or your doctor's office before you add anything new to what you are already taking, especially if you are on anything for blood pressure or cholesterol or anything cardiovascular. They have your whole picture in front of them. I have written you a letter. There is a difference, and the difference matters. The two minutes it takes to ask are worth every second.

P.P.P.P.S. The guarantee, again, in case you skimmed. Ninety days. Any reason at all. You do not have to prove a single thing — not to them, not about your numbers, not about how you feel. If you tried it and you are not satisfied, you are not satisfied, and they send the money back. That is the whole policy and it is a small-company policy, the kind of thing companies used to do when companies still answered the phone.

P.P.P.P.P.S. The thing Eli said to me on the porch — the body is the land you live on, George. Tend it — has been with me every day since. I do not farm. I do not pretend to. I have an HVAC business and a yard with a small vegetable patch that Linda planted twelve years ago. But the sentence was not about farming. The sentence was about paying attention to your own body the way you would pay attention to a horse that wasn't pulling right. I had not been paying that kind of attention. I am now. I do not know what the equivalent of that sentence is in your life. But I hope you find it. And I hope, somewhere down the road, you find yourself in a moment with the person you love where you are more there than you have been in a long time, and that you know it when you are. I hope that for you. That is the whole reason I wrote this letter.

— G.

Individual experiences vary. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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#10 by impressions Good Longest-running

### Library ID 1901751683819287

Started
  May 8, 2026
Running
  64 days
Media
  image
Delivery
  1080 x 1080

Creative read

Warm, relatable older-audience visual; effective for narrative copy, weak for product recall.

Headline

Support stamina and heart health every day

Body copy
View full text 1,546 characters

If your energy is gone by noon, take beetroot.

If your legs feel heavy and your body feels older than it should, take beetroot.

If your circulation is poor, take beetroot.

If your stamina isn't what it used to be, take beetroot.

If you feel out of breath doing things that never used to wind you, take beetroot.

If you're 40 and wake up without energy, take beetroot.

Throw away the detox teas, energy drinks, and trendy supplements. Listen to me carefully.

Just focus on getting pure beetroot.

Drinking beet juice is not the same as taking organic beetroot because you strip away the fibers.

Now you might ask, why beetroot?

Because beetroot is very rich in natural nitrates. As you age, your body produces less nitric oxide — the molecule that helps keep blood vessels relaxed and circulation flowing properly. Beetroot's natural nitrates help your body support healthy nitric oxide levels, which promotes better circulation, supports cardiovascular health, and helps restore the steady energy your body is supposed to have.

But before you go buy any beetroot, there's one thing you need to know. Some supplements aren't effective — too weak, too low in dose, mixed with fillers. To know your beetroot is pure and potent, it should be certified by independent laboratories here in the United States.

Rosabella meets that standard with every batch. Each serving delivers 1300mg of cold-extracted organic beetroot — nothing else.

Thousands of reviews. 90-day money-back guarantee. Tap the orange cart below while it's still in stock.

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## Visual audit sheets

One-page contact sheets used to verify media order, relevance, and duplicate patterns before packaging.

Modern Hearing, ranks 1 through 10.
The Health Haven / Beet, ranks 1 through 10.