I've been fighting
my whole life.
And I'm not done yet.
Understanding Cystic Fibrosis
Cystic fibrosis (CF) is a genetic disease that affects how the body moves salt and water in and out of cells. This causes thick, sticky mucus to build up, especially in the lungs and digestive system. Over time, this makes breathing harder, increases infections, and interferes with digestion and nutrient absorption. CF is lifelong, has no cure, and requires daily treatment and medical care.
Beyond the Diagnosis
Cystic fibrosis means living with responsibility most people never see—managing treatments, medications, appointments, and constant decisions just to stay stable. It's carrying an invisible mental load, always thinking one step ahead about my health, my energy, and my limits. CF has shaped how I move through the world, how I plan my days, and how deeply I value time and connection. It has taken things from me, but it has also given me clarity, resilience, and an unshakable sense of perspective. And while CF is part of my story, it does not define the fullness, joy, or meaning of the life I continue to build.
I was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at birth. In 1990, that was rare. Most infants went undiagnosed and didn't receive the correct treatment.
The median life expectancy that year was 18.
My parents had no idea what cystic fibrosis was. However, when they learned that salty ocean air could help thin the thick mucus in my lungs, they moved us as close to the waves as possible.
I grew up along the coast, living a happy, active childhood, soaking in the salty air every chance I got.
Cystic fibrosis is progressive. My childhood was healthy, but my adult years told a very different story.
As my disease advanced, the hospital became my first home and my apartment my second. The nurses and doctors became family, and some of my closest confidants.
I spent years cycling in and out—admitted for two or three weeks, home for one, then back again. Every day, I thought about independence and questioned whether it was still possible.
What CF was doing to my body didn't just affect me. Like a ripple, it reshaped the lives of everyone in my family.
“To people living with CF, breathing is a full-time job.
Hours of nebulizers, treatments, therapies, and pills.
Every single day.”
At 22 years old, my lung function dropped to 16%. I lost nearly 30 pounds. I was living on supplemental oxygen and a feeding tube just to function at the most basic level.
I was told that a double lung transplant was my only option for survival.
That moment caused a dramatic shift in my family. Everything narrowed to one focus: my health. It became the number one priority, above everything else.
The goal became simple: make it through one more day.
After a year and a half of relentless work and checking off every goal my healthcare team set, I was listed for my life-saving transplant.
Then I waited. Waiting is its own kind of fight.
On October 20th, I received my gift of life.
Slowly, I began reclaiming pieces of my old routine: walking to get my morning coffee, going to farmers markets, helping care for my dog. I became social again. I started to feel like myself.
But transplant tested me in ways I never expected.
Just three months later, I developed an abscess in my left lung the size of an orange. Doctors questioned whether the lung would need to be removed entirely. Not long after, severe distal intestinal obstruction syndrome caused me to aspirate into my lungs, leading to respiratory failure, a life flight, ECMO life support, and a medically induced coma.
When I woke up, I had to relearn everything. How to hold my head up. How to swallow. How to walk, talk, and piece my memory back together.
I didn't just survive. I had to rebuild myself from the ground up.
Shortly after my one-year Breathday, I went into organ rejection.
My care team, my supporters, and I worked relentlessly to fight our way out of it. Weeks in the hospital. Training sessions to rebuild strength. Tighter management of CF-related diabetes. Trying to gain weight through continuous tube feeds. Constant clinic visits with my specialists. We controlled every variable we knew might help.
It wasn't enough.
Within months, I was back on supplemental oxygen around the clock, drinking nutritional supplements on top of continuous tube feeds. I couldn't care for myself. I couldn't even walk across the 650-square-foot San Francisco apartment I lived in.
My lung function dropped to 9%.
Rejection was more physically and emotionally devastating than my initial battle with end-stage lung disease. I felt responsible for my body failing to accept the lungs I had been given. I carried shame for letting my donor family down.
My hospital told me I needed a second transplant.
Then they told me they weren't willing to give it to me.
I was placed on hospice and discharged from care.
My fight was not over. And neither was my family's.
As my health rapidly declined, my husband worked tirelessly to find a transplant center willing to take a chance on me.
In the middle of it all, we got married, surrounded by 150 family members and friends. Then we went on a honeymoon to my favorite place in the world, Hawaii.
Before we left, I said something simple to my husband:
“I have been fighting my whole life, and I'm not done yet.”
A Second Chance
I was admitted to the ICU when we got the news that UCLA Health was willing to give me the second chance no one else would.
We packed up everything we owned and moved across California. After five and a half months living in the hospital, I received not just new lungs, but a new life.
When I woke up on June 8th, I took the first full breath I'd taken in over a decade.
For the first time, I could truly breathe.
Today, I breathe deeply and effortlessly.
But I haven't forgotten what it feels like to fight to breathe, or how much survival depends on who shows up around you.
Fight2Breathe exists to change how patients and families experience illness—not in isolation, but in community. With access to information, support, and lived expertise from day one.
I'm building the future I once needed.
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