Most kids don't wake up to the sound of a harsh, dry cough. They don't have to pause for breath as they start their day, feeling like their lungs are heavy and tight. But kids with cystic fibrosis have to. They wake up each morning with the knowledge that their bodies are already in a quiet struggle, fighting for every breath, every bit of air they can get. It's not something anyone can see, but it's always there, just beneath the surface.
Most kids don't need a breathing machine to start their day. They don't sit at the kitchen table, hooked up to a nebulizer, inhaling medicine to help open their lungs. It's just part of their routine to breathe easily, without thinking about it. But kids with CF have to. They spend time each morning doing treatments that take up hours of their day, even though they'd rather be running outside, playing with friends, or just feeling normal. But normal for them means managing a disease that never lets go.
Most kids don't spend days at a time in the hospital. They don't know what it's like to leave home for weeks, sometimes months, to stay in a sterile, cold room with tubes and wires everywhere. But kids with CF have to. They have to endure long stays, sometimes far from family, while doctors and nurses do their best to help them breathe, to help their bodies fight infections that seem to come from nowhere. In a hospital room, life feels paused while the world outside keeps turning.
Most kids don't take a handful of pills with every meal, or swallow thick, bitter medicine several times a day. Their bodies don't require daily doses of enzymes just to help them digest food, and they don't have to worry about what's going on inside their lungs. But kids with CF have to. They know the routine by heart, measuring out the medicine like a ritual that never ends. It's not fair, but they do it, because that's what keeps them going.
Most kids don't know the weight of what it means to feel tired, not just from a long day of play, but from the fight to stay alive. They don't know what it's like to feel like their body isn't keeping up, like their energy is slipping away a little bit more each day. But kids with CF have to. They carry that weight, even though it's invisible to everyone else. They push through fatigue, through pain, through the limitations of their own bodies, simply because they have to. Most kids don't know what it's like to wonder if today will be the day when their body can't keep up anymore. They don't think about their future in terms of hospital visits or lung transplants or the possibility that their disease could one day be too much. But kids with CF have to. They live with that uncertainty every single day.
They learn to be brave, not because they want to, but because there's no choice but to keep fighting.
I am one of those few kids. And it's not fair. It's not fair that I have to work harder just to breathe, that I have to live with a body that sometimes feels like it's betraying me. It's not fair that my life is filled with things most kids will never know. But this is my reality, and even though it's not fair, I fight through it every day. I have to. I keep going, because I don't have a choice. And maybe that's where the strength comes from—knowing that I face an unfair battle, but still choosing to stand up and keep moving forward, no matter what.
