How Church Taught Me to Cough Quietly (and Other Survival Skills)

I learned self-control in a place of holiness. Not through moral teachings or communion wafers—but through the ability to continually suppress a much-needed cough during an hour-long Catholic mass.

As a child and into adolescence, every Sunday—and sometimes on weekdays during school—I sat in the church pews, trying not to die of embarrassment. When a big, lung-rattling cough was building, I’d suppress it with a dainty, breathy ahem—the kind you hear from sweet old ladies with lace gloves and small hats still worn at the Latin Mass my grandmother would take us to on occasion. (Yes, the entire mass was spoken in Latin.) Of course, that tiny little cough was not what I needed, so I soon would be wheezing like a balloon slowly losing air. And if I don’t control it quickly, I could have my hands full with mucous, literally (it has happened before).

I had a crush on a boy who sat three rows diagonally behind me. So I’d focus on my breathing—slow and shallow—to keep the wheezing undetectable. Then, during communal prayers where everyone spoke in unison, I’d speed-breathe. That was my golden window: a few seconds to sneak in a cough or two, and clear out some of the constantly producing mucus intent on clogging my lungs. It was my own sacred rhythm: inhale hope, exhale phlegm.

Looking back, those Sundays weren’t just about God. They were my first training ground. How to survive when it’s quiet. How to make an illness invisible. How to control a body that didn’t want to be controlled. How to not have a sudden coughing spell so thick with mucus that I sounded like a retired sea captain hacking up the last of his cigar-ridden lungs—clearing out the rows around me for fear of catching something dreadful.

Years later, in meetings and creative sessions, shopping at a city boutique or sitting on a crowded plane to see clients, those same skills came in handy. Tiny coughs whenever there were breaks with laughter. Careful and controlled breathing. Discreet throat clears. A quick tissue grab when nobody was looking. All while trying to seem “healthy & normal” and not about to give you an infamous plague.

But there’s nothing normal about fighting to breathe every day of your life. That’s why I decided to write this blog. Because for most of my life, I kept it quiet—like those stifled coughs. I didn’t talk about what it means to have Kartagener’s Syndrome. What it feels like to be sick every single day, with no finish line, no “getting better,” no moment where you get to exhale freely and be done. No cure for the pneumonia inside.

And then Covid happened. I know it brought so much pain to others, and don’t take it the wrong way, but I miss that time. It was different for me. Not only was I being protected from everyone wearing masks, but suddenly, everyone knew what it was like to cough, ache, and wheeze. To be laid up for a week or two. Maybe a month. But for me, that was daily life. However, I couldn’t stay in bed. I had to get up and go to work. Some even talked about “long Covid”—symptoms lingering a whole year, and they couldn’t function at all.

A year? Try 58 years and counting! Try having a ‘version of Covid’ that doesn’t go away. Try waking up sick, coughing, congested, and tired every single day of your life.

So this blog is like my mass. My Homily. My unmuted microphone to say: I’m still here. I’ve always been here— uhm, hold that thought while I cough into my mug. I’ve survived what some people think is un-survivable (I’ve heard them talk about their Covid experience for years now). And I did it—plus some—while “out of bed” and trying to hide it all in public spaces—classrooms, meetings, church pews.

This is where I tell the truth. Because the truth is: I’ve never had a single healthy day.
But I’ve had a lifetime of strength.