“Holding my breath” by Amirah Harris, 18

I was diagnosed with asthma at five years old, but it wasn’t until we moved to Atlanta around age ten that it really hit hard. The air was thicker. The secondhand smoke from our building, the dampness, and dust only made it worse. I remember sneezing so much that I burst a blood vessel, and a red spot sat on my eye like a warning light. I couldn’t run outside like the other kids. Playing too hard meant wheezing, coughing fits, and sometimes hospital visits. There were days I would sit still, afraid that even movement might trigger another attack. Asthma kept me physically trapped, but nothing could have prepared me for the emotional trap that would come later.

My grandmother was a force. She lived alone, handled her business, and carried a strength in her that you could feel when she walked into a room. When she got sick, it didn’t seem real. First, it was constipation. Then food poisoning. She was in pain but tried to hide it. We visited her in Jacksonville, and though she looked tired, she insisted she was fine. But deep down, we all knew something wasn’t right.

One day, after going to the store, she finally admitted, “I don’t feel good.” We rushed her to St. Vincent’s, a hospital under the Baptist network. But the care there was slow, almost neglectful. We waited for hours before she was seen. They found a UTI and sent her home with a catheter. We didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of the end. During those days, I helped take care of her. I’d fix her food, clean her, sit by her bedside, and just try to make her feel

comfortable. But I was also watching someone I loved more than anything slowly slip away.

She asked to return to the hospital, and this time we took her to a different one. They said she’d need six months in rehab, but that she’d recover. The diagnosis didn’t feel final, and the family held on to hope. We FaceTimed her regularly, making sure she knew she wasn’t alone. Then, on

the night of my mother’s birthday, we got the call. She had suffered a minor heart attack. The nurses reassured us that she would be fine. But days later, after being rushed to the ICU, we found out it was stage four cancer. It was spreading fast. And the woman who had always been so strong suddenly couldn’t even speak.

I stayed behind in Georgia with my father because I had school. My mother flew to Florida to be with her. When things got worse, they flew my grandmother by helicopter to another Baptist hospital. It was serious now. I went to Florida the next Tuesday. Walking into her hospital room was like walking into a dream I didn’t want to be in. She couldn’t talk, but she saw me. She looked at me with so much in her eyes, it was like she was speaking without words.

I sat next to her, held her hand, and prayed. I told her I loved her. My cousin and I even joked about who her favorite grandchild was. I was watching her closely, searching for any flicker of the grandmother I knew. And then I saw the tears. They slid down her face silently, and it broke me. She was in pain, and I could feel it as if it were my own. I cried because I knew this wasn’t something I could fix. She wasn’t just tired, she was ready. And for the first time in my life, realized that sometimes love means letting go. I prayed again, this time not for healing, but for peace. I told God, “If You’re ready to take her, I trust You.” But I didn’t want to say goodbye.

October ended with a funeral. I thought we would all come together to honor her life. Instead, everything shattered.

After the service, the first limo pulled up, meant for all her children to ride together. But one of my uncles had taken control of the arrangements and filled the limo with his own family, leaving the others stranded. My mom and aunt stepped out, still dressed in black, and walked toward my uncle standing on the porch of my grandmother’s house. My aunt asked him calmly why he lied about paying for the funeral. Without warning, he snapped. “F you, Gita,” he shouted.

That was the moment everything exploded. My aunt broke down crying and cursing. My mom tried to hold her back, but the pain was boiling. My cousin stepped in to help, and that sparked a second argument. Suddenly, everyone was yelling. The air was heavy with decades of buried pain. I stood there frozen, trying to process it all.

My dad started screaming, “Get in the carrr,” panicking, trying to get me away from the chaos. But my mom stood firm. She looked at me, calm and focused, and said, “Stay here.” She knew this was family business. She turned back around and stood by my aunt’s side.

People were pacing, yelling, threatening. One cousin pulled off his shirt like he was ready to fight. My uncle’s wife started defending him, but her words only made things worse. My little cousins were crying. Neighbors came outside to see what was happening. We were supposed to be mourning, not tearing each other apart. And yet there we were, in front of the same house where we used to share holidays and laughter, now fighting like strangers.

But it didn’t end there. My uncle took legal action against my mom and aunt, suing them and taking control of my grandmother’s car and house. The same car I was promised was ripped away. The house, once full of warmth, is now falling apart, neglected. We weren’t invited to weddings, baby showers, or graduations. The cousins I grew up with became strangers overnight. Even my grandaunt, nearly 100 years old, avoids contact with us because of the family division. The family is broken, and no one wants to pick up the pieces.

And me? I’ve put it all in the back of my mind. I think about my grandmother every single day, but I try not to face the reality of it all. I’ve had to push past so much just to keep functioning. I don’t think I’ve really coped. I still wait for her to walk through the door. I imagine her voice, her laugh, her hugs. Sometimes I even forget for a moment that she’s really gone. Then it hits me all over again. She’s not coming back. And the people left behind are more distant than ever.

The hands that once braided my hair and held me close, the hands that healed my scars, now needed healing in return. But I wasn’t able to give it. That will always haunt me. I feel like I missed out on so much time with her. I was young and helpless, and everything happened so fast. My childhood asthma kept me from doing a lot physically, but this emotional wound is something deeper. Something I still don’t know how to breathe through.

But I keep going. Because I know she would want me to. And maybe, just maybe, writing this is the first step in facing what I’ve been running from all along.