When Rachel’s doctor diagnosed sleep apnea and handed her a clunky mask, she sat in the car and cried. The machine felt like a spotlight on her age, her weight, her limitations. “Is this what getting older looks like now?” she wondered.
The first few nights were miserable. Straps dug into her face, and the sound of the machine annoyed her. But on the fourth morning, she noticed something: her head felt clearer, her chest less tight. She walked to the kitchen without that familiar fog.
That day, she decided to treat every deep breath as a prayer. Inhale: “Thank You for keeping me alive.” Exhale: “Help me live this day well.” She realized she had lived years on spiritual autopilot—short, shallow breaths—never pausing long enough to feel sustained.
As the weeks passed, the mask shifted from symbol of weakness to instrument of mercy. Her body was learning to rest again; her faith was learning too.
She started walking in the evenings, using the same rhythm—breath and gratitude. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real: air in, fear out; air in, trust out.
Rachel still doesn’t love the machine, but she loves what it gave back: energy, clarity, and awareness that even her breathing is borrowed. She tells friends now, “Every breath is proof God hasn’t finished with me yet.”