Breathing Through the Storm

When I was a child, I thought life was supposed to be lived without limits. Running in the streets with friends, playing cricket in the dusty grounds, laughing until our lungs begged for air — those were the moments that made childhood feel alive. But for me, laughter and running always came with a shadow: shortness of breath, wheezing, and the terrifying weight of not being able to breathe.

I had asthma.

People who don’t live with asthma can’t always understand how frightening it feels. It’s not just about coughing or wheezing; it’s about the sudden fear that your own body might betray you. There were nights when I lay awake, counting each breath, afraid that the next one might not come easily. There were mornings when I wanted to join my friends in their games, but my chest tightened before I could even take the first step.

At first, I hated it. I hated being different. I hated being the boy who had to carry an inhaler everywhere, the boy whose parents worried whenever the weather changed, the boy who seemed fragile when all he wanted was to be strong.

But life has a way of turning pain into lessons if you are willing to listen.

Over time, asthma forced me to see the world differently. It made me cautious, yes — but also careful. It taught me to value every breath, every small joy, every day when I woke up without tightness in my chest. It taught me that health is not something we should ever take for granted.

Most importantly, it gave me discipline.

To manage my asthma, I had to create routines. Sleep on time. Eat carefully. Avoid the dust, the smoke, the triggers that could send me spiraling into an attack. At first, it felt like a prison. But slowly, I began to see it as structure. Where my friends lived freely, I lived intentionally. Every choice mattered, and I became aware of my body in a way others never had to.

I remember one particular night, years ago. I had forgotten to keep my inhaler close. I woke up gasping, my chest locked as if someone had pressed a heavy stone on it. The panic set in — my parents rushed, the room was chaos. I thought I might die that night. But I didn’t. Instead, I survived, and I promised myself never again to be careless with my life. That was the night discipline truly became my companion.

Asthma, strangely enough, gave me a kind of strength. A hidden strength. Not the kind you show on a cricket field, but the kind that whispers, “Keep going, even when your body says stop.” It made me resilient, patient, and empathetic toward others who suffer in silence.

Now, when I look back, I don’t see asthma only as a curse. I see it as a teacher. It taught me discipline — something many healthy people struggle to build. It taught me to prioritize, to respect my limits but also to push myself wisely.

Today, I am not just the boy with asthma. I am a man who knows the value of health, routine, and inner strength. Yes, I still carry my inhaler. Yes, some days are harder than others. But instead of asking, “Why me?” I now ask, “What can I learn from this?”

And the answer is always the same: breathe, live, and keep moving forward.

Asthma may have slowed my steps, but it also gave me purpose in every single one of them.

💬 Author’s Note:

If you’ve ever struggled with a condition that made you feel weaker than others, know this — sometimes what feels like a burden can shape you into someone stronger, wiser, and more disciplined than you ever imagined. Every breath is a gift. Cherish it. ❤️