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Breath is the sustenance of life. Without it, our bodies and minds will cease to exist.

Yet our breath is something we often take for granted. We don’t have to think about it really. It just happens. With no real thought or effort on our part.

Inhale. Exhale.

We rarely even notice—that is UNTIL our air supply is cut off or disrupted.

Have you ever choked on a piece of food? Had an older sibling who thought it was funny to hold a pillow over your face? (I did…Thanks, Bro!) Worked out so hard or pushed your physical limits to the point of gasping for air? Experienced a panic attack? Shortness of breath in high altitude? Been swimming, come up for a breath and took on a mouthful of water instead?

Stop right now, where you are, and pay attention to your breath.

Were you holding your breath? Are your breaths long and deep? Short and shallow? Is it difficult for you to breathe in any way?

I think a lot about breath. That’s because I grew up understanding the value of a single breath. I was diagnosed with asthma as a child. Almost every childhood memory I have—toddler all the way through adulthood—is set against the backdrop of lung disease. So my limiting beliefs surrounding breath and my specific ability (or inability) to breathe have been with me for as long as I can remember.

I recall my doctor trying to explain to a friend of mine what it was like for me during an asthma attack. “If you want to know what it feels like, purse your lips around a straw, and try to breathe deeply, full breaths in and out.”

In essence, you gotta work for it!

After many years of considering supporting a cause so close to my heart (and lungs), this past weekend I finally did it. I participated in the American Lung Association’s Fight for Air Climb.

My goal was to climb four of Des Moines’ tallest downtown buildings (more than 1800 stairs) as fast as I could – for fun – while raising money and awareness for the ALA.

In the wee morning hours on the day of the climb, I awoke in a sweaty panic about what I was about to attempt. It hit me that not only would I be climbing 92 flights of stairs, but that I would be doing so in the dank, enclosed, constricting space of office building stairwells. Blood pumping. Pulse rising. Heart beating in my ears. No fresh air. No windows. NO ESCAPE!

Headline Reads: Perfectly healthy woman dies alone, trapped in stairwell of prominent office building during an event with thousands of participants, hundreds of volunteers and EMT staff on hand. Found weeks later.

All rationality had gone out the window!

But thanks to my commitment to live an Adventuresome Life – despite my insecurities, fears, reservations and every insane, tragic and devastating scenario my brain could formulate – I made my way to the start line.

Love me an Adventuresome approach to life! It helps me experience a version of life that I would otherwise deny and just let pass me by. I have yet to regret any Adventuresome choice I have ever made…no matter how much I was questioning that choice initially.

As “Wave 2” boomed over the speakers, I filed into the chute and waited my turn to enter the stairway. What had I got myself into?

This moment of unknown reminded me of the first time I ever attempted to run the mile in elementary school P.E. class. I’m still unsure to this day whether my childhood allergy to fresh cut grass or the shock of just how far a mile actually was (probably a combination of both) brought me to my knees in a fit of tears. I would not complete a mile that day.

But this day was not that day. TODAY, I would not be escorted off the course in defeat. As the race volunteer motioned me forward, I entered the concrete stairwell of Building 1 (17 floors).

I was quickly reminded, like a brick to the face, that no matter how leisurely my pace, I was in fact gaining altitude with every step. By the 10th floor, my heart rate was near max, and my ratio of needed oxygen to fuel my muscles and lungs to actual availability was out of balance.

The overwhelming sensation of being trapped and not getting enough air began to consume me, a feeling my childhood made sure I was all too familiar with.

At around 10 years old, I battled a severe bout of asthma that would ultimately leave me hospitalized. My usual rescue inhaler had become basically useless, supplying little to no relief for mere seconds rather than the few hours of relief it normally provided.

My mother drove me to a pulmonary specialist an hour away at Mach speed, and just getting into the doctor’s office left me literally gasping for air. The doctor withheld use of my inhaler as they prepared breathing treatments and an adrenaline shot to hopefully help open my airways.

But when the doctor left the room, I cried and begged my mother for the inhaler. Desperate for even a moment of relief, I physically attacked my mother, trying to pry the inhaler from her clutches.

It wasn’t until nurses restrained me and calmed me down that I realized I could still breath, however shallow, minimal and labored it might be.

As I entered Building 2 (23 floors), I remembered that shift I experienced at age 10. Breathing may have been hard, but I could still breathe, and the calmer I was, the easier it was. I survived the first building without suffocating. Without passing out. Now it was time to move to the next level.

In junior high, I took it to the next level when I joined the track team. At my first-ever track meet, I was entered in the 400 meter dash – just a quarter of the distance of my failed mile attempt years earlier. I still had no concept of distance or the effort/energy I needed to exert in a given distance.

Amid undertones of competition, adrenaline-pumping crowd support and teenage naiveté, the start gun went off, and I ran my little heart out – literally! My heart felt like it would pump out of my chest all the way to 200 meters (1/2 way around the track), where I abruptly hit the wall!

Despite that, I’m proud to say I did finish the race that day. But not without an award-winning America’s Funniest Home Videos, “I’m about to die here,” gut-wrenching, sympathy-sucking look upon my face as I entered the straightaway – the last 100 meters of the race.

All humiliation aside, I collapsed at the finish line, relieved to be finished (and still alive)! But mortified by the interesting and downright unnatural shade of bluish purple my legs had turned.

Some 30 years later, my legs a nice, normal shade of pinkish white, no need to collapse or attack my poor loving mother, and the expression on my face still in the “normal” wheelhouse, I entered the third building of the stair climb (18 floors).

17 floors down. Then 23. Now 18. No problem.

It’s funny how once we do something that we’ve never done before, our brains adjust. “No way” becomes “of course I can.” Giving us permission to allow a little more. It’s how records continue to be broken again and again over the course of history. Once a person sets a new threshold for what is possible, another person believes it too and pushes the limits further.

Believe you can and you’re halfway there. – T. Roosevelt

So as I entered high school that 400-meter race became 800 meters…1500 meters…3000 meters! My love for long-distance running was officially born.

I would compete with my inhaler in hand through every cross country meet and track event. Up until the point, upon winning a race, I was disqualified by track officials for the use of what they considered to be a performance-enhancing drug.

I was devastated! Cried unfair! Of course it was performance enhancing. It allowed me to breathe when I might not be able to otherwise. My wise and somewhat amused coach calmly suggested, “Maybe it’s time to let go of your crutch.”

As much as I resented him in the moment, I knew he was right. Every time I started a race, puffer in hand, I was buying into the limiting belief that I was at a disadvantage, impaired in some way. That I might not be able to “finish my mile.”

During college, my relationship status with running was updated to casual and complicated. I attended classes, studied feverishly, worked diligently and alright, alright – frequented a few parties.

Not a coincidence, I’m sure, that I was hospitalized four times over the course of those four years. Stress, lack of sleep, poor eating and health habits, combined with less than ideal environmental factors – such as dust, mold and the general uncleanly living of college-aged folk, all common asthma triggers.

I was hospitalized one additional time after college, in my mid-20s, with pneumonia from complications of asthma.

It was then that I met Dr. Gregory Hicklin, M.D. & Pulmonary Critical Care Specialist. I’ll never forget his words to me, “You don’t have to live this way anymore. You can live the life of your choosing. I can help.”

You know what? I believed him. And just like that, I dropped my crutch!

(I’m thrilled to say that last hospital stay was 22 years ago!)

I was free! Free to continue my love affair with endurance running. My passion was reignited, amplified, and without limitations.

I finished my first 20K race in the late ‘90s – swearing I would never attempt that distance again. Until, of course, I went on to complete my first marathon of many (26.2 miles) just one year later. And despite several instances of hobbling back to my hotel room post-race, my ultimate running achievement to date (and probably for my lifetime…but we’ll see) was tackling 70 miles during a 24-hour race (about 10 years ago).

So as I entered Building 4, my final climb, my marathon mentality kicked in. I had come far enough to know I could do this. Take it one step at a time.

My passion for pushing myself beyond perceived limitations went into overdrive.

I felt honored and lucky to be a part of this event, in those stairwells with hundreds of other people just above or below me at any given moment.

I felt grateful for my entire journey, that day and every day before, that brought me to this exact moment in my life.

I felt dizzy as I climbed the final stairway, past 18 floors, then 23, making my way round and round, always turning to the right.

My heart rate skyrocketed! Keep Climbing.

My legs burned! Keep Climbing.

My lungs ached! Keep Climbing.

But a smile graced my face the entire time. And as I crossed the finish line, 34 floors up, I thought back to my childhood.

If you had told that defeated, tear-stained, grass-stained, blue-legged, mom-attacking, frightened little girl version of myself (or anyone who knew her) that she would one day run marathons and climb skyscrapers, they would’ve said, “Don’t hold your breath.”

And you know what? They would’ve been EXACTLY right. Don’t hold your breath! Instead, take a deep breath. Breathe deeply. And keep moving onward and upward!

 

Did this post resonate with you in anyway? I’d love to hear about it in the comments below.