You start noticing the air, not just breathing it
It used to happen in the background. Breathing. Without effort. Without thought.
But now, your chest feels full before your lungs do.
A yawn doesn’t stretch as far.
You lean back and realize you’re doing it to inhale deeper.
Like your body’s trying to remember something it once did on autopilot.
A pause begins to follow each breath.
You don’t talk about it. But you notice it.
You used to climb stairs without negotiation
Steps aren’t just numbers now. They’re measurements of energy.
You calculate them without realizing.
How many? How steep? Who’s watching?
You reach the top—but not with ease.
Not anymore.
You hold the rail even if you don’t need it.
Just in case.
Just because.
Coughs no longer belong only to colds
It’s not just winter anymore.
Not just when you’re sick.
It’s morning. It’s evening.
It’s after laughing.
It’s during silence.
You cough and people glance.
You wave it off.
But it keeps showing up.
At meetings. At breakfast. In dreams.
Your chest sounds like it’s whispering back
You lie in bed, and it begins.
Not pain. Not panic. Just noise.
Wheezing.
Like your body is trying to speak through air that no longer listens.
A quiet crackle.
A faint whistle.
A soundtrack no one else hears.
But you do. Every night.
Sleep doesn’t restore—it suspends
You wake up with the same weight you went to bed with.
Not just tired.
Heavy.
You nap, but don’t wake refreshed.
You rest, but don’t feel repaired.
Like your energy is paused—not refilled.
You learn to adjust your expectations of morning.
Not to feel good, just to function.
Laughter ends in gasps, not joy
You still joke.
You still laugh.
But now, it ends differently.
Shorter.
Interrupted.
Like your lungs forgot how to join in.
You smile, catch your breath, pretend nothing happened.
But inside, you know.
You feel the shift.
The space where air used to be.
You start avoiding invitations that require movement
No one says it out loud.
But you know which plans you can’t make anymore.
Walks too far.
Places with stairs.
Events with too many people, too much talking.
You say you’re busy.
You say you’re tired.
But really, you’re managing your breath like currency.
You feel your ribcage when you didn’t used to
It’s strange.
The way you become aware of bones meant to be invisible.
Your chest tightens more than it expands.
You massage your sides.
You shift while sitting.
You become familiar with tension in places you didn’t think could hold tension.
Even simple things begin to need planning
Grocery shopping needs timing.
Showering becomes slower.
Vacuuming waits for a better day.
You don’t feel lazy.
You feel paced.
You’re not doing less because you want to.
You’re doing less because you have to.
Your voice gets softer, not on purpose
You used to speak louder.
Laugh louder.
Now, you pause more.
You save air like it’s something precious.
Like using too much might cost you something.
So you choose when to speak.
And when to stay quiet.
Smells don’t fade, but breathing through them gets harder
Perfume.
Cleaning spray.
Smoke.
What used to be background now feels like resistance.
You avoid certain aisles.
You open windows.
You hold your breath.
You adjust.
You adapt.
Even when you shouldn’t have to.
You begin to wonder if others notice
They probably don’t.
Your changes are quiet.
Your struggles internal.
You’re not coughing blood.
You’re not gasping for air in public.
You’re just… a little slower.
A little quieter.
A little less visible.
Doctor visits begin to feel like validation
It’s not in your head.
It never was.
They say “COPD.”
You nod.
You already knew, even if you didn’t have the name for it.
It’s both a relief and a grief.
You were waiting for clarity.
You got a condition.
You start collecting inhalers like bookmarks
Different types.
Different colors.
They sit by your bed.
In your bag.
In your coat pocket.
They are both tools and symbols.
They keep you moving.
They remind you that movement has changed.
You don’t run anymore, even in dreams
Running used to mean escape.
Freedom.
Now, even asleep, your body avoids it.
You dream of sitting.
Of watching.
Of breathing without effort.
Even fantasy has adjusted to your reality.
Weather becomes a factor, not a background
Humidity.
Cold.
Wind.
They matter now.
You check the forecast not for rain, but for breathability.
You avoid certain days.
You brace for others.
You stop trying to explain it
Because words don’t capture it.
Not really.
Not entirely.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
That’s easier.
More acceptable.
But not honest.
Not anymore.
You begin to measure time by energy, not hours
You don’t ask what time it is.
You ask how much energy you have left.
Enough to go out?
Enough to cook?
Enough to sit upright?
Time becomes background.
Energy becomes currency.
You remember your old breath like a song you forgot the lyrics to
It plays sometimes.
In memory.
You remember walking far without thinking.
Dancing without gasping.
Talking without resting.
You miss it.
Not loudly.
But deeply.