Cystic fibrosis is a thief.
It takes from me every day, quietly at first, like a pickpocket brushing past in a crowded room. A little bit of breath here, a moment of energy there. But over time, it has become bolder, greedier, more relentless. Now it steals openly, snatching hours, days, even the simplest joys, leaving me gasping in its wake.
It starts in my lungs, turning them into a battleground. Each breath feels like dragging air through a sieve clogged with mucus I can't escape. Coughing isn't just a reflex—it's a full-time job. My chest tightens in rebellion, each spasm a cruel reminder that something so essential has become a struggle.
But CF doesn't stop there. It seeps into other parts of me, stealing nutrients no matter how much I eat, forcing my pancreas to bow under its weight. Pills become a lifeline: enzymes before meals, antibiotics to fight the infections that never seem to leave, steroids to calm the inflammation that never truly rests. My body is a clockwork machine, and every part has to be managed, maintained, coaxed into working just long enough to get through the day.
It steals spontaneity too. I can't just "go." Every trip, every outing, every plan is built around nebulizer treatments, medication schedules, and fatigue levels. Friends might call me "low-key" or "laid-back," but the truth is, I've just gotten good at masking the exhaustion, the planning, the sheer effort it takes to pretend I'm okay.
And then there's the waiting—the endless waiting. For the next round of pulmonary function tests. For the next hospitalization when an infection flares out of control. For the transplant list to move. For the inevitable reality I try not to think about too often.
But cystic fibrosis doesn't get everything.
It hasn't taken my stubbornness, the part of me that insists on finding joy in the cracks of each day. It hasn't taken the warmth of my friendships, the fierce love of my family, or the quiet strength I've built over years of fighting this battle.
It hasn't taken my laughter. I laugh harder and louder now because I know what it means to cherish the moments that feel light, even when my lungs don't.
And it hasn't taken my hope. It might not be loud, and it might not always be steady, but it's there—a spark that refuses to be extinguished. Hope that science will keep pushing forward, that the next breakthrough is closer than we think. Hope that, despite everything, there's still more life for me to live.
Cystic fibrosis is a thief, but it's not the only thing that defines me. I am more than what it takes. I am still here, still fighting, still breathing. For now, that's enough.
