“Gasping for Air: My Battle with Asthma, Anxiety, and Being Seen” by Kennedy Hogan, 18

I’ve spent most of my life fighting to breathe, not just physically, but emotionally, too.

I was diagnosed with asthma as a young child. At first, I didn’t understand what that meant. I just knew that every time I ran in P.E. or played outside, I’d feel like my chest was caving in. Like the air around me didn’t belong to me. Like my body was betraying me in front of everyone. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was fear. Imagine gasping for breath while the world keeps moving around you, not stopping, not noticing. That was my everyday reality.

Growing up with asthma felt like carrying a secret weakness. I was constantly reminded that I was different. While other kids raced each other during recess or sprinted during gym class, I was the one slowing down, stopping, clutching my chest while everyone kept going. I remember one day in third grade when we had to run laps for fitness testing. I barely made it halfway before collapsing to my knees. As I struggled to use my inhaler, a group of kids stood nearby and laughed. “She can’t even breathe right,” one of them joked. I laughed along, pretending I wasn’t hurt—but inside, I was breaking. It was moments like those that made me feel like I didn’t belong in my own skin.

As I got older, the comments didn’t stop—they just got quieter, more subtle, more painful. Whispers behind my back when I had to sit out of activities. Teachers raised their eyebrows when I asked to use my inhaler again. Even adults sometimes didn’t believe me. They’d tell me to “tough it out,” not understanding that I wasn’t choosing to stop—I physically couldn’t keep going. These experiences made me question my worth. I started internalizing the message that I was weak, incapable, or simply not enough.

This constant judgment took a toll on my mental health. The more I was teased, the more I isolated myself. I became hyper-aware of my breathing, convinced that everyone was listening to me struggle. I began avoiding physical activity altogether—not because I didn’t want to move, but because I couldn’t bear the humiliation of falling behind. I didn’t want to be the girl gasping for air in the back of the group. I didn’t want to be a spectacle.

Eventually, the anxiety crept in and settled like a second illness. I stopped speaking up in class. I avoided eye contact. I stopped going to events or participating in clubs. Depression followed close behind. I spent hours in my room, curled under blankets, crying quietly into my pillow. I felt like I was sinking under a weight that no one could see. The things people couldn’t see always seemed the hardest to explain. Asthma wasn’t just in my lungs, it was in my mind, my confidence, my sense of self.

The weight gain came, too, not just from inactivity, but from emotional exhaustion. I didn’t feel motivated to move. I was constantly tired. I hated looking in the mirror, not just because of how I looked, but because of how I felt—trapped in a body that wouldn’t cooperate, in a world that didn’t understand me. It was one of the darkest periods of my life.

But even in the middle of that darkness, a spark remained inside me. Somewhere, buried beneath all the fear and shame, there was still a part of me that wanted more. A part of me that believed I could be more than the girl who couldn’t breathe.

That part of me led me to make a bold decision: I tried out for cheerleading.

To this day, I still don’t know exactly what gave me the courage. Maybe it was defiance. Maybe it was hope. All I knew was that I was tired of hiding. I was tired of being invisible. I wanted to prove that people like me, people with asthma, with anxiety, with doubts and scars—could still shine.

Trying out was terrifying. I wasn’t the fastest. I wasn’t the most flexible. I had to take more breaks than everyone else. But I kept going. I showed up to every practice, every conditioning session, every routine with everything I had—even when my lungs were burning and my heart was pounding. And somehow, I made the team.

Being a cheerleader wasn’t easy. It tested every part of me. There were times I cried after practice, overwhelmed and breathless. There were moments I fell behind and had to fight the urge to quit. But slowly, cheer began to heal me. I started gaining strength—not just physically, but emotionally. I learned to breathe through the panic. I learned to stand tall even when I felt like collapsing. I learned that I belonged.

Eventually, I didn’t just survive—I thrived. I became a leader. I became cheer captain. And with that role came a new responsibility: to lead with compassion, to uplift others who felt like they didn’t fit in. I knew what it felt like to feel left out, to feel incapable. I made it my mission to make sure no one on my team ever felt that way.

But I knew my impact couldn’t stop there. I wanted to reach beyond the cheer mat. I wanted to create a space for people who were still silently suffering—people who, like me, were battling invisible illnesses and emotional scars. So I created a mental health club at my high school.

It started with a small group, just a few students gathering to talk, vent, and breathe. But word spread. Soon, our club grew into a community. We welcomed students with chronic illnesses, anxiety, depression, and anyone who felt overwhelmed by life. We shared our stories, our coping strategies, and most importantly—our hope. I organized guest speakers, resource drives, and awareness campaigns. We partnered with counselors and helped students advocate for themselves in classrooms. I saw students come in broken and leave empowered. I saw myself in each of them.

That club became one of the proudest accomplishments of my life. It wasn’t just a space—it was a movement. A reminder that we are not alone. That we are worthy of support, of kindness, of healing.

Asthma and mental illness will always be part of my story. I still have hard days. I still carry my inhaler and my coping tools. But I’m no longer ashamed. I’m no longer hiding. I’ve turned my pain into purpose. I’ve used my voice to lift others, to create change, to challenge the narrative that people with chronic conditions are weak.

Now, as I look ahead to college and my future, I carry all of this with me—not as a burden, but as a badge of honor. My experiences have shaped the person I’ve become: empathetic, determined, and resilient. I want to study public policy and law so I can continue advocating for those whose voices are too often ignored. I want to fight for healthcare access, mental health support, and stronger protections for people living with chronic conditions.

I’m not just a girl with asthma. I’m not just a girl with anxiety. I’m a leader, a fighter, and a survivor.

I’m sharing my story because I know what it feels like to be overlooked, dismissed, and underestimated. I know what it feels like to want to give up. And I also know what it feels like to fight through it anyway.

If I can make it—gasping, crying, hurting, but still rising—then I know someone else out there can too.

And maybe, just maybe, my story will help them believe they can breathe again.