We are just floaters. People that float from group to group, sport to sport. My family is full of them. My brother, my sister, my mother, and me. We all float. My sister, the lacrosse goalie, the swimmer, the volunteer. My brother, the basketball point guard, the runner, the energetic. My mother, the cyclist, the supporter, the mom. And me, the swimmer, the cyclist, the asthmatic. The asthmatic. The one who has trouble staying with the group. The one who has trouble keeping up. Bronchi spasming, difficulty breathing. I just need my inhaler to release what I need from its clutches. With a puff of meds I’m good to go. Or am I?

Not all of us are floaters. My father, the ironman, the marathon runner, the cyclist, the lunatic, the genius, the veteran, the salesman. It’s not easy filling size seventeens when I’m a twelve. Shoes the size of Everest. Shoes forever growing. I hear about the great stories of my father as I hear expectations I can never fulfil. My poor asthmatic self can’t keep up with the expectations. My poor asthmatic self...