Sarah Peekmill Facebook ad: “Ceylon Cinnamon 7200mg Equivalent with MCT Oil”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1401532831597186

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, WhatsApp and Threads

Relaunches

0

How we count

Ad text

I bought Resia because they offered a 90-day money-back guarantee and I figured worst case I get my money back like every other supplement that didn’t work. I need to be honest. I didn’t buy it because I believed it. I bought it because I was scrolling Facebook at 11pm the way I scroll Facebook every night because I wake up at 3am and can’t fall back asleep and by 11pm the next night I’m exhausted but my brain won’t shut off so I scroll. And I saw a post from a woman who said her A1C dropped from 7.6 to 5.4 in three months taking one softgel a day. Ceylon cinnamon. MCT oil. The post had thousands of comments. Half of them saying it changed their numbers. Half of them saying nothing works. I’ve been Type 2 diabetic for six years. A1C sitting between 7.2 and 7.8 the entire time. Metformin every morning. Grilled chicken every night. The same fasting glucose between 142 and 168 every morning for six years. I’ve tried cinnamon from the pharmacy. Nothing. Berberine from Amazon. Nothing. Chromium. Nothing. Apple cider vinegar gummies. Nothing. Four supplements in six years. Four bottles in the back of my cabinet behind the paprika. So when I saw the Resia post I almost scrolled past. Almost. But the woman in the post said something that stopped me. She said the cinnamon she tried before was cassia not Ceylon and that’s why it didn’t work. Wrong species. Wrong dose. Wrong delivery. Three things wrong. She said she spent years thinking cinnamon doesn’t work and it does work but only if it’s the right plant at the right dose in the right oil. I thought that sounds like a very convincing way to sell another supplement that won’t work. But the 90-day guarantee. Full refund if the numbers don’t move. No questions. No paperwork. I’ve spent more than that on supplements that didn’t come with a guarantee. I’ve spent more than that on a nutritionist who told me things I already knew. I’ve spent $22,474 on my diabetes in six years and not one dollar of it came with a money-back guarantee. So I thought f*ck it. What’s another product. If it doesn’t work I get my money back. If it does work I get my numbers back. Either way I’m not losing anything except the three minutes it takes to order. I ordered at 11:17pm on a Tuesday. From my bed. Phone in one hand. The other hand on my forehead in the pose of a woman who has given up on everything except the scroll and the guarantee. It arrived three days later. I opened the bag. Took out a softgel. Amber. Small. Looked like every other supplement I’d tried. I swallowed it with my morning coffee. On top of the Metformin. Changed nothing else. Week one. Nothing. No change. The fasting glucose was the same. 148. 152. 144. 159. The same range. The same numbers. The same morning routine of testing and seeing the same number and putting the meter back on the counter and eating the same grilled chicken and going to bed and waking up at 3am and staring at the ceiling. I almost stopped. Day five I almost didn’t take it. I stood at the counter with the softgel in my hand and thought here we go again. Another bottle for the back of the cabinet. Another $40 for the pile of things that didn’t work. I took it anyway. Because the guarantee said 90 days and it had been five. Week two. Something shifted. Not dramatic. Not a revelation. The kind of shift you almost don’t notice. The kind you notice in retrospect. I woke up on Tuesday of week two and the heaviness was different. The morning heaviness. The weight that sits in my body between the alarm and the shower. The heaviness I’ve had every morning for years. The heaviness was lighter. Not gone. Lighter. Like the dial turned from 6 to 4. I told myself it was coincidence. The weather. The sleep. Something I ate. I told myself everything except the obvious because the obvious meant hope and hope in chronic disease is the cruelest thing because hope that fails is worse than no hope at all. Then Thursday of week two I slept through the night. No 3am wakeup. Went to bed at 10:30. Woke up at 6:40. Morning light in the room. I lay there and checked the clock twice because I didn’t believe it. 6:40. I didn’t wake up at 3. The thing that happens every night didn’t happen. I tested that morning. 136. I haven’t seen 136 in over a year. Week three. The fog lifted. The 2pm fog. The wall of fatigue that hits every afternoon where my brain goes offline and I lean on my desk and close my eyes. The fog that I’ve been managing with coffee and willpower for years. It didn’t come. I sat at my desk at 3pm and I was still thinking. Still alert. I looked at the clock at 3:15 and realized I was working. Not fighting the fog. Working. My fasting glucose that week. 128. 131. 124. 126. The numbers were in the 120s. I’ve been in the 140s and 150s for six years. The numbers dropped into a range I hadn’t seen since the first year after diagnosis. I tested three times on the morning I saw 124. Same finger. Three strips. 124. 122. 126. Close enough. The meter wasn’t lying. The number was real. Week four. I ate pasta. I need to say that again. I ate pasta. Regular pasta. Semolina. Red sauce. I made it at my own kitchen table in my own kitchen on a Tuesday night. The first plate of real pasta I’d made in six years. Not lentil pasta. Not chickpea pasta. Not zucchini noodles. Real pasta. I tested ninety minutes after. After pasta. After a plate of the food my doctor told me to eliminate six years ago. 118. I sat at my kitchen table looking at 118 on the meter and looking at the plate with pasta residue on it and I didn’t know what to do with the information. Six years of avoiding this food. Six years of eating around it. Six years of watching other people eat it. 118. Week six. I forgot. I need to say that clearly. I forgot I was diabetic. Not literally. I didn’t forget the diagnosis. I didn’t forget the Metformin. I didn’t forget to test. I forgot the weight of it. The constant background calculation that runs in a diabetic person’s brain before every meal and every snack and every social event and every restaurant and every grocery store. The calculation that says what can I have. The calculation that runs automatically. The operating system of the disease. The calculation went quiet. I was at the grocery store on a Saturday. I was in the bread aisle. I was reaching for a loaf of sourdough. My hand was on the loaf and I was putting it in my cart and I was halfway to the next aisle before I realized what I had just done. I put bread in my cart. Without the calculation. Without the pause. Without the mental arithmetic of carbs and glucose and what will this do to my number. I just picked up bread and put it in the cart the way people who don’t have diabetes pick up bread and put it in the cart. I stood in the cereal aisle holding my cart and I felt something I hadn’t felt in six years. Normal. The feeling of being a person in a grocery store buying food without a disease editing the list. My fasting glucose that week. 108. 112. 104. 110. Numbers I haven’t seen since before the diagnosis. Numbers that start with 10. Numbers that belong to a person who doesn’t have diabetes. The 3am wakeup hadn’t happened in three weeks. Gone. Not reduced. Gone. The foot tingling that I’d been ignoring for two years started fading. The buzzing that was at a 5 every night was at a 2 and dropping. The fog hadn’t come back. Not once. The afternoons were clear. My brain stayed on past 2pm every day. I stopped buying the 3pm coffee. The coffee that was the medication for the fog that was the symptom of the glucose that was trapped in my blood because the doors were closed. The doors opened. The fog lifted. The coffee was unnecessary. I saved $4.50 a day on coffee I didn’t need anymore. Week eight. Full panel. I went to my doctor. Didn’t tell him about Resia. Just went for the quarterly labs. Sat in the chair. Gave the blood. Waited. He called three days later. “I need to see you. Can you come in?” I went in. He had the chart on his screen. The line that had been flat between 7.2 and 7.8 for six years. A1C: 5.9. He looked at the screen. Looked at me. “Your A1C dropped almost two full points in eight weeks. Your fasting glucose is averaging 108. Your triglycerides are down 54 points. What happened?” I told him. The Facebook post. The scrolling at 11pm. The guarantee. The f*ck it. The softgel every morning. Ceylon versus cassia. MCT oil. Resia. He listened. Quiet. “I haven’t been trained on this. But I can’t argue with these numbers. Let’s reduce the Metformin and recheck in six weeks.” He reduced the Metformin that day. Week twelve. Three months. The guarantee period. The 90 days that I bought because worst case I get my money back. I didn’t get my money back. I got my life back. A1C: 5.4. Down from 7.6. Fasting glucose averaging in the low 90s. Metformin at half dose. My doctor is talking about taking me off it completely. The 3am wakeup is gone. Has been gone since week two. I sleep through the night every night. Every night. The 3am ceiling I stared at for years is just a ceiling now. I see it when I go to bed and when I wake up in the morning and never in between. The foot tingling is gone. The sensation that I was told was permanent and progressive is gone. Not managed. Not reduced. Gone. The fog is gone. The 2pm crash doesn’t exist anymore. I work through the afternoon like a person whose blood is delivering glucose to her cells instead of drowning in it. I eat bread. I eat pasta. I eat rice. I eat the food I eliminated one by one over six years. I eat it and I test and the numbers confirm what my body already told me. The food was never the problem. The closed doors were the problem. The food goes in now because the doors are open. Two things I wish I’d known six years ago instead of finding out from a Facebook post at 11pm on a Tuesday. The cinnamon I tried from the pharmacy was cassia. Different species entirely. Cassia contains roughly five percent coumarin which is why European regulators cap daily intake. It strains the liver. Never meant for daily use. No wonder it didn’t work. It wasn’t even the right plant. True Ceylon from Sri Lanka. Trace of coumarin. Safe for daily use. The only species in the clinical research. Same word on the label. Different plant inside. And dose and delivery. The pharmacy capsule was 500mg of dry powder. Below the research dose. Wrong delivery. Fat-soluble compound in a capsule with no fat. It passed through my body for three months without absorbing. I concluded cinnamon doesn’t work. I was wrong. The delivery was broken. Resia. True Ceylon cinnamon from Sri Lanka. DNA-verified. 7,200mg equivalent. Suspended in MCT oil so it actually absorbs. Third-party tested for purity, which matters more than it should given the FDA has flagged lead contamination in eighteen cinnamon brands since 2024. One softgel a day. 90-day money-back guarantee. The guarantee that made me say f*ck it at 11pm on a Tuesday. The guarantee that I didn’t need to use because the numbers moved in week two and kept moving and haven’t stopped. Link is below. I was the skeptic. I was the woman who tried four supplements and concluded supplements don’t work. I was the woman scrolling Facebook at 11pm because the 3am wakeup had ruined another night and the exhaustion had ruined another day and the cycle was six years old and nothing changed and the cabinet was full of bottles that didn’t work. The guarantee made me try one more. The numbers made me stay. If you’re scrolling right now. If it’s 11pm or 1am or 3am and you’re on your phone because the sleep didn’t come or the sleep didn’t last and the ceiling is above you and the diagnosis is beside you and the cabinet has bottles in the back that didn’t work and the number on the meter every morning is the same number it was last year and the year before. If you’ve tried things and they didn’t work and you think nothing works. One more. 90 days. Money back if nothing happens. Something happened for me at day ten. The heaviness lifted. The sleep came. The numbers moved. The fog cleared. The food came back. The calculation went quiet. The disease got quieter. Improving. Not managed. Improving. The word my doctor used at the last appointment. Not stable. Not managed. Not holding steady. Improving. The word that six years of the standard protocol never produced. The word that twelve weeks of the right species at the right dose in the right oil produced. Improving. F*ck it worked.

Where the ad sends people

tryresia.com

Ceylon Cinnamon 7200mg Equivalent with MCT Oil

resia