Where Is My Asthma Now?

In 1970, I was born with asthma.

If someone asks me how my asthma is these days, the honest answer is simple: I feel really good. My breathing doesn’t stop me from doing my normal activities. I take my medications, and as long as I do, my asthma mostly stays in the background.

When I say “normal,” I don’t mean asthma-free. I mean, I get through my day without thinking about my breathing. I work. I move. I live my life. Most days, I don’t feel like a patient; I just feel like a normal guy. However, achieving this level of stability while aging with asthma took decades of learning.

That wasn’t always the case.

Growing up breathless

The 1970s. Early in my life, feeling short of breath became normal to me. I remember times when I didn’t want to play with my brothers because I felt tight in my chest—but I played anyway. I wanted to be like them. Sometimes that probably made things worse, but stopping didn’t feel like an option.

At school, I was often short of breath, too. I had an inhaler, but I didn’t always use it. I didn’t want attention. I didn’t want to feel different. So, I stayed short of breath and dealt with it unless it became unbearable. I didn’t even tell my parents most of the time—not because they didn’t care, but because I didn’t want to bother them.

The cycle of emergency asthma care

1980–1984. When I ended up in the emergency room as a kid, doctors would ask the usual questions: How often are you short of breath? Is there a season that’s worse for you? My answer was always the same: every season was bad.

That didn’t mean I was short of breath every single day. Long-term asthma doesn’t work that way. There were good days, too. But it happened often enough to shape how I lived. Exercise could trigger it. Playing in the basement could trigger it. Colds almost always did. Sometimes the shortness of breath started mild and just wouldn’t go away. Other times, it escalated quickly—ending with a doctor’s visit, an ER visit, or a hospital admission.

I learned to tolerate feeling short of breath and treat it as an inevitable part of growing up with a respiratory condition.

The turning point for my asthma

January 1985. That perspective collided with reality when I was admitted to an asthma hospital in Denver. On my first day, they called a Code Blue. My lips were blue. People rushed in. Alarms sounded.

I remember thinking, “I’m fine. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

They were shocked by my response, and I was surprised by theirs. What struck me most wasn’t fear—it was irritation. To me, this felt familiar. I’d lived like this. What felt normal to me looked dangerous to everyone else. That was the moment things began to change.

The most important lesson I learned there was to take my lung health seriously—not fearfully, but seriously. They taught me that people living with asthma develop early warning signs. If you learn to recognize them and act early, you can often stop an attack before it becomes severe. Back then, action meant simple things: use your inhaler, tell an adult, and don’t wait it out. Above all, don’t brush off symptoms. Treat asthma early and intentionally.

Finding independence and asthma control

1985–1986. I spent 6 months there, away from home, surrounded by kids just like me. I worked not only with doctors but with counselors and psychologists. They helped me understand my anxiety and manage it better. In a real way, those months forced me to grow up. I sometimes joke that it’s what made me the “smart one” in my family—but there’s truth in that.

Coming home took adjustment. I had to find my place again with my brothers, and they molded me back into shape. But the biggest change was that my asthma was finally under better control. It no longer dominated my life the way it once had.

My parents changed, too. They asked me more often how I was doing. Still, because they didn’t have the condition themselves, it wasn’t always easy for them to fully understand—and I respected that. Over time, I took more ownership. I managed my chronic asthma on my own unless it got serious. And when it did, I spoke up right away.

I took my diagnosis more seriously. And because of that, it didn’t get as bad as often—as long as I avoided triggers and took my medication, which wasn’t always easy.

Gratitude for modern asthma management

2026. Today, I don’t feel lucky, but I do feel grateful.

I’m grateful I was born at a time when asthma could be treated. For most of human history, people with respiratory issues simply suffered and waited for attacks to pass—if they passed at all. Today, we have treatments not only to relieve flare-ups but to prevent them. Because of that, most of us can live relatively normal lives despite this lifelong condition.

Flare-ups still happen. But they’re usually less severe and easier to control. For me, aging with asthma and maintaining control doesn’t mean the disease disappears. It means it stays manageable. It means I take my medication, pay attention to early warning signs, and live my life without constantly thinking about my breathing.

And that, to me, is something to be grateful for.