Redefining what Strong Means
Asthma attacks and Self Reflection
It felt like life was performing a flawless pirouette. Everything was in perfect harmony: clear skin, strong nails, periods a mere whisper compared to the month-long marathons of my endometriosis past. Yoga had become a sanctuary once again, my body gracefully flowing through familiar poses. Then, just as I reached the peak of this self-created bliss, bam. My asthma, a silent specter in the background for years, decided to stage a dramatic comeback.
The culprit, I assumed, was my recent trip to Lisbon. The unfamiliar climate, combined with a carb-fueled love affair with the city’s delectable pastries, seemed like the prime suspects. After all, my husband and I thrived on a low-carb diet back home. Carbs, for us, were like ticking time bombs for inflammation. But here I was, in the States again, and my lungs, once reliable partners on my fitness journey, were rebelling. The familiar tightness in my chest, the desperate gasps for air during even mild exertion — it was like a cruel reminder that perfect health is often an illusion.
The first wheeze was subtle, a hesitant cough during a yoga pose. I ignored it, attributing it to my post-travel fatigue. But the coughs came back, bolder each time, transforming my peaceful downward-facing dog into a frantic scramble for my inhaler. The blue puff provided temporary relief, a brief respite in a war I knew I couldn’t win through sheer willpower alone.
The next morning, waking up with a persistent tightness in my chest, was a harsh reality check. Family walks and hikes with our dog, a ritual that had become a source of both physical and mental rejuvenation, was a struggle. Frustration bubbled within me. Here I was, feeling the best I had in years, and my body, it seemed, had other plans.
The days that followed were a frustrating dance between denial and acceptance. I tried pushing myself, determined to maintain some semblance of my routine. But each attempt ended with a hacking cough and a retreat to the safety of my couch. My carefully curated low-carb meals felt like wasted effort as I inhaled Ventolin, the hiss a constant reminder of my limitations.
The forced pause was a bitter pill to swallow. But slowly, a different kind of strength began to emerge. It wasn’t the physical strength of a yoga warrior, but a quiet, introspective power. I started listening to the subtle whispers of my body, the first signs of fatigue, the ever-so-slight increase in chest tightness. I learned to recognize these warnings before they morphed into full-blown flare-ups.
I adjusted my expectations. Instead of taking the route with all the inclines, I took a slow, mindful walk on flat roads. The woods transformed from a place of brisk hikes into a space for quiet contemplation. I dusted off my neglected meditation app, finding solace in the rhythmic rise and fall of my breaths.
The forced slowdown became, unexpectedly, a period of deep self-discovery. I delved into the reasons behind my initial denial. Was it the fear of losing the progress I’d made? The pressure to maintain a facade of perfect health? Gradually, I began to understand the need to redefine my strength. It wasn’t just about pushing myself to the limit; it was about recognizing my limitations and respecting them.
It wasn’t a complete victory, of course. There were still bad days, days when the wheezing returned, and the blue inhaler became my constant companion. But even those days felt different. The frustration was tempered by a newfound acceptance. I learned to navigate the setbacks, to trust my body’s signals, and to find strength in the quiet moments of recovery.
The most valuable lesson, however, wasn’t about managing my asthma. It was about listening to the wisdom whispered by my own body. It was about respecting its boundaries, acknowledging its needs, and trusting my own inner knowing. In the dance of life, sometimes the most graceful movement is a step back, a pause to listen to the music (in my case a wheeze from my lungs), and a gentle pirouette towards self-acceptance.
