The Inhaler in My Bag by Anushka Bhatt

 

The Inhaler in My Bag

by Anushka Bhatt

At first, I thought I was just out of shape. Soccer practice was tough, but it felt tougher than it should’ve. I’d jog through warm-ups, and suddenly my chest would clench like it was caught in a vice — tight, unrelenting, like a seatbelt locking mid-motion. I brushed it off. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I wasn’t pushing myself enough.

Then came that one night. I wasn’t even moving — just lying in bed — and I still couldn’t breathe right. My lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves, shrinking with each breath instead of expanding. I didn’t cry or call out. On the outside, I was still. But inside, everything was on high alert. My thoughts raced, my heart thudded, and I kept telling myself it would pass. That I was overreacting.

The next day, urgent care gave me a word: asthma. Specifically, exercise-induced. I didn’t even know that existed. I thought asthma meant wheezing, inhalers during gym class, something more obvious. But this? It was silent, sneaky, and terrifying.

Now I carry an inhaler everywhere — tucked into the side pocket of my bag like a lifeline. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t beep or buzz or draw attention. It’s just there, small and quiet, like a backup battery I hope I never have to use.

Asthma isn’t always dramatic. It doesn’t show up with sirens or scenes. Sometimes, it’s subtle — a whisper in your chest, a pause you can’t quite explain. And that whisper says: slow down. Take a breath. Pay attention.

And now, I do.