I’m writing you this letter because I know you’re a doer. You don’t like sitting around and waiting for something to happen. You don’t like asking for help, even when you need it. And you do not like feeling helpless. This is not a letter of advice, not really. This is a way for you, faced with what might appear to be a hulking problem, to turn it into a puzzle you can solve with a cool head.

Inhale. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Become away of every in of your body. Make a note to yourself of what parts hurt and what parts don’t. Take another deep breath. Focus on your mind. Acknowledge your problems: What is troubling you right at this moment? What is making you stressed at this moment? Now acknowledge the good: What are you thankful for in this moment? Take one more deep breath and open your eyes.

All matter is infinitely divisible into parts. If you take a substance and break it and tear it apart over and over and over you still have more things to divide. So sometimes, that’s how you need to solve your problem. You break it down over and over again until it’s small enough for you to deal with, and then you move on to the next smallest part.

It’s easy to breathe.

There will be people around you and in your life who will say ambiguous things like “you just need to fight” or “you’re doing such a good job.” But they’re not talking to you, not really. They think that ambiguity can benefit you in the long run, that cut-and-pasted trademark words of inspiration are helpful. They don’t know that sickness isn’t cured by hope, they don’t know that survival doesn’t always mean holding up a sign that says “I beat it,” they don’t know that living is hard, especially when that life is in jeopardy.

Just breathe.

So here is what you do: look at each part of your problem individually, break it down, and get to work. Take every single choice you make a step towards the finish line. Step one: breathe in and out. Step two: open your eyes. Step three: touch my finger, touch your nose. Step four: drink a sip of water. Step five: sit up. Step seven: take your pills, swallow. Step eight: rest. Step nine: feet off the bed. Step ten: take a step. End of day one. Day two: begin again.

Did you remember to breathe?

The only person who can save you, in the end, is yourself. The doctors will stitch up your body, give it what it needs to be fixed, and save you from your physical pain. Your family will give you a place to rest, tell you that they love you and are proud of your progress, and comfort you with kisses and loving arms. Your friends will make you laugh, tell you stories of the pieces of information you missed, and take you back as if nothing ever happened. All this will help, but do not take it for granted. All of these are gifts that are given to you by those who care. But lastly, it is up to you to glue them all together and make yourself whole again.

How do you do this? The answer is: by parts. Breathe, rest, cry, shout, talk, laugh. Push out all the negative energy you possibly can, and with the rest, either turn it into positive energy or come to terms with its existence. Being whole doesn’t mean being flawless, for even superheroes have shortcomings written into their character. So do not focus on being “normal” or “perfect,” focus on becoming you again.

Stop and take a moment to breathe.

So I’m writing this letter to you so that you won’t waste away. You won’t become a romanticized version of an illness that a writer can sell to teenage girls in tragic love story format. I’m trying to tell you that you are more than the illness you have. So don’t you dare let it consume you. Don’t let that unseen foe build itself up in waves until it comes crashing down on you. With every breath you take, make that tidal wave smaller and smaller until it’s something you can deal with. Slowly break it down, divide it into parts. Step by step, day by day, and part by part, overcome each problem as it comes to you, even if that means just getting through the day.

Start with an intake of air.

Breathe.