Jamye LaRose

For as long as I can remember, breathing has never been easy. I’ve lived my whole life with asthma. Over time, it worsened – turning into severe COPD and chronic airway scarring. Breathing became a fight. Simple things took everything out of me. I never realized how much you could miss the feeling of a deep, full breath until I couldn’t take one anymore. At first, I pushed through – for my kids, for my family, for myself. But eventually, my body couldn’t keep up. That’s when I entered the lung transplant program. And that’s when everything became real. I knew I was sick. But hearing it in a clinical room, with all the facts and scans laid out, shook me to my core. The words weren’t just scary – they were sobering. This was serious. Life-or-death serious. Now I’m in the waiting phase – not quite before, not quite after. It’s the hardest space to live in. I don’t know when the call will come. I just know that it will. And when it does, I imagine I’ll feel everything all at once: scared, excited, happy, and so deeply relieved. I’ll breathe. And I’ll start again. Right now, what keeps me going is my children, my fiancé, my cousin and his wife, and a friend who’s stood by me for over 35 years. They are my reason. My strength. When things feel overwhelming or uncertain, I remind myself who I’m fighting for – and that gives me the courage to keep moving forward. I dream about that future often. I picture myself playing with my 8-year-old daughter, who has Kabuki Syndrome. I imagine being active, involved – able to do things with her, not just watch from the sidelines. I want to show up for my grandchildren, for birthdays and ball games and quiet moments in between. I want to live, not just survive. Since being accepted into the transplant program, I feel blessed. Truly blessed. Not everyone gets this second chance. I don’t take it lightly. I’ve come to see that hope is a kind of oxygen, too – and I’ve started breathing it in more often. If you’re someone still waiting, or living with a chronic lung disease, here’s what I want you to know: You are not alone. The fear is real, but so is the hope. Hang on. And please – if you’re reading this and you’re healthy, don’t take it for granted. Every breath is a gift. Every moment, a chance to live fully. This is my story – not finished yet, but already full of fight, love, and breath