World Asthma Day is held on the first Tuesday in May.

Every time my mother laughs heartily, climbs a flight of stairs, or simply walks a little farther, something becomes noticeable that others don't perceive: a moment of hesitation between her joy and her chest, as if the air were asking permission to enter. She has asthma, and I've grown up learning that, for some, breathing is a respite.

World Asthma Day is a reminder that millions of people live with the fear of an attack, a night with a cold, or a laugh that turns into a cough. My mother doesn't talk much about her asthma, yet she always carries it with her, with every change in the weather, every encounter with the neighbor's smoke, or the scent of an air freshener.

Being the child of someone with asthma means learning to watch, to listen for whether her silence is rest or a lack of oxygen, to know where the salbutamol inhaler is, and to understand that fear is a constant, real shadow.

This May 5th, although asthma affects more than 260 million people worldwide and causes half a million deaths annually, I seek to make the invisible visible. That asthma isn't "a little shortness of breath," it's a negotiation with the most basic act of life: breathing.

My mother taught me that asthmatics are warriors of calm, that the best medicine, in addition to treatment, is a society that doesn't normalize pollution, that doesn't tolerate smoking in enclosed spaces, and that understands that lending a salbutamol inhaler can save a life.

Today, I commemorate not the disease, but the greatness of those people who, like her, win the battle against the air every morning. I hope this day helps more people understand that asthma isn't a choice, but empathy and care are.