You pause in the afternoon. You sit. You try to rest. But your breath rushes ahead. You’re not panicking. You’re not moving. Still, air feels thin. Not gone—but not present either. You shift in your seat. The feeling follows.
Not gone—but not present either
You breathe in. It catches. You breathe out. It’s shallow. You do it again. Still uneven. You press your palm to your chest. You feel your own tension. It’s not pain. Not tightness. Just wrong. Unfamiliar.
Just wrong. Unfamiliar
You weren’t running. You weren’t afraid. There’s no reason for your lungs to feel this loud. But they do. Every inhale feels like a question. Every exhale feels incomplete.
Every inhale feels like a question
You try counting. Four in. Four out. You try to ground yourself. Your chest keeps pushing back. You sit upright. You uncross your legs. Nothing changes. Your body won’t let the breath settle.
Your chest keeps pushing back
You walk around, hoping movement helps. It doesn’t. It stirs the discomfort more. You lie down. That’s worse. You stand again. Your breath feels most trapped when your body is still.
Your breath feels most trapped when your body is still
You thought stillness would be calm. But your body fights it. Stillness now feels like waiting for the next short breath. Like watching air struggle to arrive.
Stillness now feels like waiting
You think about what triggered this. Stress? Heat? Nothing? The fear builds because there’s no obvious cause. It just happens. Random. Quietly terrifying.
The fear builds because there’s no obvious cause
You stop calling it anxiety. That word feels too tidy. This isn’t racing thoughts. This is breath disobeying the rhythm. It’s not mental. It’s mechanical. But invisible.
This is breath disobeying the rhythm
You try to name it. Dyspnea. Air hunger. Restriction. None feel right. Language doesn’t match the feeling. You just know the stillness doesn’t help. And the moving barely distracts.
Language doesn’t match the feeling
You start avoiding places where stillness is expected. Waiting rooms. Elevators. Meditation classes. Even your own bed. Anywhere you might be asked to relax becomes a place to fear.
Anywhere you might be asked to relax
You begin carrying water everywhere. You sip to swallow. You swallow to check your throat. You pretend it helps. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. But it gives your hands something to do.
You pretend it helps
You avoid tight clothing. Scarves. High collars. Anything around your neck. You need to feel nothing touching. Nothing pressing. You wear light fabrics. Loose buttons. Anything that lets your chest move more freely.
You need to feel nothing touching
You talk to someone. A doctor. They ask if it’s asthma. You say no. They ask about panic. You say it doesn’t feel like that. They ask when it started. You don’t know anymore. You just know it hasn’t stopped.
You just know it hasn’t stopped
They run tests. Blood. X-rays. Spirometry. Your oxygen looks fine. Your lungs look clear. You want to believe them. But your breath still stumbles. Still flutters when the world slows down.
Your breath still stumbles
You research alone. You read about functional breathing. About vagus nerves. About dysautonomia. About long COVID. You read more than you should. But every phrase sounds a little like you.
Every phrase sounds a little like you
You find stories. Forums. People who describe the same thing. The same stillness that hurts. The same quiet that unsettles. You don’t know what to call it. But you know it’s real.
The same stillness that hurts
You avoid silence now. You keep background noise on. Music. Podcasts. Even the hum of appliances. Not for your ears. But for your lungs. So they don’t notice the quiet and tighten again.
Not for your ears. But for your lungs
You practice breathing like it’s a skill you never learned. You exhale longer. You try box breathing. You place hands on your stomach to feel depth. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes you just pretend.
You practice breathing like it’s a skill
You remember when breathing used to happen without your attention. You mourn that version of yourself. You try not to chase it. But it sits in memory. Whispering what ease once felt like.
You mourn that version of yourself
You plan your day around your lungs. No long conversations. No deep silence. No moments where you might be asked to sit still and feel everything your body forgot how to regulate.
Moments where you might be asked to sit still
You look healthy. No cough. No fever. No diagnosis. You go out. You smile. You work. But under the surface, you’re holding yourself together—one quiet breath at a time.