Kathy M., AL

Most people never think twice about taking a breath—until it becomes something you have to fight for.

In my family, breathing has been a quiet, persistent challenge—woven into our lives like an invisible thread, shaping our days and often going unspoken.

My mother, Patricia Cable Moore, was the center of our world. She carried herself with quiet dignity and strength, even as her body began to falter. On April 8, 2024, we learned she had lung cancer. It was a moment that changed everything. In just a few months—by July 5, 2024—she was gone.

The cancer took her breath, but it never touched her faith, her love or her fierce devotion to her family. She gave everything she had until her last breath.

Losing her left a void no words can fill. But in truth, my own struggles with breathing had started before her diagnosis.

After I had COVID in August 2022, I never quite felt the same. What I thought would be a temporary illness left behind lasting symptoms: fatigue, tightness in my chest and a chronic cough that lingered long after the virus was gone. Some days, I would cough until I was exhausted. Other days, I felt like I just couldn’t get enough air. It was frustrating. Scary. Confusing.

Concerned, I went through a series of chest X-rays and CT scans, worried that maybe the same shadow that had claimed my mother was now hanging over me. Thankfully, it wasn’t lung cancer. But the discomfort didn’t go away.

Then, in May 2025, almost a year after losing my mother, I was diagnosed with asthma. The diagnosis explained a lot, but it also brought a wave of emotion I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about breathing anymore. It was about everything I’d been holding in.

I couldn’t help but think of my dad, who’s lived with asthma for over 30 years. He’s managed it quietly, without complaint. His resilience now feels like a light I didn’t fully appreciate until I stepped into this part of the journey myself.

I now understand that asthma isn’t just a physical condition—it’s a lesson in patience, in awareness, in resilience. It teaches you to be present in your body, to respect its limits and to treat every clear breath as a gift.

But there’s another layer to this journey I didn’t expect: grief. Since my mother passed, it feels as though the weight of loss lives in my chest. Every time I cough. Every time I struggle to inhale deeply. Every time I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

It’s more than asthma. It’s sorrow. It’s the body remembering what the heart hasn’t finished processing.

Because sometimes, it truly does feel—almost as if the grief and uncertainty were taking up space in my lungs.