Like the lightning bug, I flash my lantern against the darkness

On summer nights, when the air settles soft over the hills, and the porch boards hold the day’s last warmth, I watch the lightning bugs rise. They drift up from the grass like sparks shaken loose from the earth, each one carrying its own small lantern.

People talk about their glow as if it’s magic, but the truth is even better: Inside that tiny abdomen is a chemical reaction waiting for oxygen. The firefly opens a microscopic valve, lets the oxygen flood in, and the lantern flares to life. When it closes the valve, the light fades. Every flash is a breath. Every breath is a choice.

I didn’t know that for most of my life. I just knew that lightning bugs were the first sign that the world was settling down for the night. But once chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) entered my vocabulary and oxygen became something I had to think about instead of something that simply arrived, I started paying attention to how other creatures manage their air. And the lightning bug, of all things, turned out to be a teacher.

Its glow depends on oxygen arriving exactly when it’s needed. Mine does too, though my glow is quieter. The firefly’s lantern lights when oxygen rushes in; my body steadies when oxygen reaches the places that have been starved. The firefly dims when the flow stops; I do too, though in ways only I can feel. It’s the heaviness in my ribs, the fog of carbon dioxide building where clean air should be, the slow tightening that tells me I’m running out of room.

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When the lantern doesn’t get the oxygen it needs

COPD is, at its core, an obstruction of exchange. Air comes in, but not enough. Carbon dioxide leaves, but not fast enough. The valves don’t open cleanly. The lantern doesn’t get the oxygen it needs. I’ve lived long enough with this disease to know the rhythm of it: the mornings when breathing feels like wading through wet leaves, the afternoons when supplemental oxygen feels like someone cracked open a window in a closed-up room, the nights when the body finally settles and lets the air move more freely.

Lightning bugs don’t glow constantly. They glow in pulses like little declarations, little survivals. My life has become like that. There are moments when the oxygen flows easily, and I feel lit from within, able to walk a little farther, talk a little longer, laugh without coughing. And there are moments when I dim, waiting for the next breath to arrive, waiting for the exchange to clear enough space for me to shine again.

I think about that when I see them blinking across the yard. Their flashes look effortless, but inside each one is a tiny act of coordination: oxygen delivered at the exact second luciferin and luciferase need it, nitric oxide stepping in to redirect the flow, the whole lantern responding instantly to the firefly’s command. It’s a miracle disguised as a bug.

Shaped by how we manage our air

My own body doesn’t respond instantly anymore. It negotiates. It bargains. It works harder than it should to do what the firefly does with ease. But the principle is the same: oxygen is the difference between dimming and shining. Oxygen is the difference between struggle and steadiness. Oxygen is the difference between feeling like the world is closing in and feeling like it’s opening again.

Maybe that’s why lightning bugs still feel like kin to me. We are both creatures shaped by how we manage our air. We both carry lanterns that depend on oxygen arriving at the right moment. We both flash — not constantly, not perfectly, but persistently — against the darkness.

And maybe that’s the quiet truth I’ve learned living with COPD: Even a body that has to fight for its oxygen can still make light. Not the kind that floats over a summer yard, but the kind that shows up in small, stubborn ways — in the steadiness of a breath that finally lands, in the relief of carbon dioxide clearing out, in the soft return of energy after a hard spell. These are my flashes. These are my lanterns.

On the nights when the lightning bugs rise, I sit and watch them blink across the yard, each one a reminder that light doesn’t have to be constant to be real. It just has to arrive when it can. It just has to keep trying.

Note: COPD News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult your physician or other qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of COPD News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues about chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.