We will breathe the air at 10 000 feet for those who cough at ground level.
At 11 800 feet I could see my breath. My lungs were not clouded, my body about to become as weightless as my breathing; each foot we climbed in altitude for someone on the ground below us fighting to inhale.
I tumbled from the plane head-first in a blur of fear and gratitude. I embraced every second of free-fall, each lung-filled gasp of life, beauty, and sky.
I turned 25, three years longer than the life-expectancy of someone living with Cystic Fibrosis.
They say man can’t fly - we just leapt out of a plane, and lived.
They say there is no cure for CF- we just need to take a different leap until then.