My Story: How Anxiety Impacted My Asthma

I don’t really consider myself an asthma advocate. I’m a blogger at heart. I like to write; I don’t like to talk. A few years ago, I went to Washington D.C. to “advocate” on Capitol Hill. I had to speak with Congressmen to try to convince them to vote for asthma-related bills. And honestly, I hated every moment of it. It was incredibly uncomfortable for me to talk to people in that setting.

Advocating in that way just isn’t for me. Others in the asthma community do it and do it well, but not me. My advocacy comes through my writing. This is my gift. Writing is what I do best, and I will continue to write about asthma until everyone is aware of the disease—or until asthma is no longer a problem.

And I’ll keep doing this, even if I end up repeating myself. Thankfully, even after doing this since 2007, I’ve never truly repeated myself. Somehow, I keep coming up with new ideas for asthma-related topics on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. It’s because this is my passion. Writing about asthma is what I love. I don’t do videos, and I’ll never return to Washington D.C. as an advocate. That’s simply not my gift.

I want to share something personal with you today, something I’ve never shared before. As a child, I would often suffer from asthma attacks for hours, sometimes days, before I gathered the courage to tell my parents. Can you imagine that? There were times when I could only take in half a breath in my bedroom in the middle of the night. I’d even poke my head out the window, hoping the fresh air would help (and, to be honest, it did help a little).

There were moments when I cried in frustration. But still, I didn’t tell my parents. I wrote about this on my blog several years ago, and one fellow asthma blogger commented: “Why wouldn’t you tell your parents if you were feeling so bad?”

At the time, I didn’t have an answer. I simply replied, “I don’t know.” I still don’t fully understand why I was so afraid to ask for help. My parents were loving and caring, yet I still held back. This wasn’t a one-time thing—it happened many times. I suffered in silence, unsure how to reach out for help.

You might ask, “How did your parents not notice?” Well, it was because of me. I was an expert at pretending. I’d walk by my parents, shoulders down, holding my breath so they couldn’t see how badly I was struggling.

Eventually, I found the courage to wake them up. Every time, they were empathetic, rushing me to the hospital. So, why did I wait so long to tell them? That’s a question I couldn’t answer—until recently.

In 1985, I spent six months at an asthma hospital in Denver, where I was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder. It wasn’t caused by my asthma. It was a completely separate issue. The doctors explained that my anxiety was exacerbating my asthma. They worked with me to help manage my anxiety so I could better manage my asthma and seek help immediately when I needed it.

The thing is, I could speak just fine in comfortable settings. But when I was in an uncomfortable situation—like feeling miserable and needing to wake my parents—I’d freeze. I couldn’t communicate when I felt stressed. This was true at school too. Surrounded by people, I would rarely, if ever, raise my hand to speak with teachers, and my grades suffered as a result.

Looking back, I can see how anxiety and asthma were intertwined. Learning to address my anxiety has been key to managing both. And by sharing my story, I hope others can find the courage to speak up when they need help.