The Staircase at Belvedere Castle: A Sarcoidosis Date Afternoon Lesson in Doing It Slower (and Still Doing It)

My wife and I have a rule—one day a week, we try to have a date.

Not a “reservations at 7, valet parking, and a complicated outfit decision” kind of date. Just time. Together. Alone. No work. No appointments. No medical paperwork trying to stage a hostile takeover of the kitchen table.

Just us.

We’ve never been big on elaborate plans. Our dates are simple pleasures—walks on the beach, strolls through parks, sitting somewhere pretty with takeout and pretending that counts as dining out. We like being together without spectacle.

This particular day, we drove into the city in the late afternoon and walked through Central Park. No agenda. No expectations. Just movement, fresh air, and that rare sense of being unhurried. The sun was lower in the sky, the park calmer, the city slightly less aggressive.

We wandered into an area we hadn’t really explored before—Belvedere Castle. It sits up there like it knows things. Like it’s been quietly observing everyone’s struggles for decades and doesn’t feel the need to comment.

It was beautiful. Peaceful in that very specific Central Park way, where you can still hear the city breathing around you but feel temporarily removed from it. My wife was happy. I was happy.

I was also having a hard time breathing.

And I’d been dealing with a migraine for two days. Not the polite kind. The kind that makes light feel personal and sound feel like an accusation.

Even the slightest inclines in the park were suddenly a problem. Not dramatic hills. Just gentle rises in the path that would barely register to anyone else. They had me stopping every so often for what I call “catch my breath” breaks and what my pride calls “absolutely unnecessary commentary.”

And no, I didn’t bring my portable oxygen.

Because of course I didn’t.

Why bring the thing that helps when you can bring stubborn optimism and vibes?

You would think after nearly two decades of living in this body, I’d understand that preparedness is not surrender. But apparently I still like to test the limits of my own common sense.

My wife noticed immediately. She always does. She didn’t say anything at first. She just slowed down to match my pace like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which somehow makes me love her more and resent my lungs at the same time.

As we got closer to the Castle, I saw the staircase.

You know the kind. The kind that looks manageable from a distance. Friendly, even. And then you’re standing in front of it and realize it has been lifting weights and is not interested in your feelings.

I stopped. Just stood there for a moment, gathering myself. I knew instantly what those stairs were going to do to me.

My wife gently told me I didn’t have to go up if it was too difficult. No pressure. No disappointment. Just honesty. She knew I was struggling.

And standing there, at the bottom of that staircase, I felt it all at once—frustration, anger, defeat.

Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind you swallow so you don’t ruin a perfectly good afternoon by yelling at stone steps.

Once upon a time I would have skipped up those stairs two at a time. I wouldn’t have thought about it. I wouldn’t have noticed my breathing. I wouldn’t have worried about what awaited me at the top.

Now I could picture it clearly: the breathlessness, my heart pounding, that unsettling feeling of not enough oxygen reaching my brain, the dizziness, the lightheaded sensation that makes you stop mid-thought and wait for your body to catch up.

I hated that I knew exactly how it would feel.

I hated that I could remember what it felt like to move through the world without negotiating every physical decision.

And I wanted to turn away.

I wanted to pretend benches were the point of Central Park.

And then something shifted.

Not in a cinematic way. No swelling music. No inspirational monologue. Just a quiet realization that landed with the weight of truth.

Yes, the stairs would be difficult.

But I didn’t have to do them all at once.

That was it. That was the moment.

I had been looking at every challenge with the eyes of the man I used to be—the physically capable version who didn’t need to plan for oxygen or recovery time. And every time I did that, I was setting myself up for disappointment.

I needed to look at these moments with the eyes of the man I am now.

A man with sarcoidosis.

A man with heart failure.

A man who still wants the same things—walks, parks, shared experiences—but has to approach them differently.

The problem wasn’t the stairs.

The problem was my expectations.

So instead of turning away, I accepted the staircase—not as a test, not as a victory lap, but as something I could still do in a new way.

I didn’t need to bound up the steps. I couldn’t.

But I could climb them.

Slowly.

I took it one step at a time. I stopped when I needed to. I let my breathing settle. I let my heart calm down. I pretended I was admiring the view when really I was just giving my body a moment to cooperate.

My wife stayed right with me. No rushing. No hovering. Just steady presence.

And eventually, I made it to the top.

There was a beautiful view of Turtle Pond—one I’d never seen before. Quiet. Still. Worth every pause.

Standing there, something settled inside me.

Because in that small act—climbing a staircase slowly, stopping without shame, refusing to let embarrassment dictate my choices—I finally accepted something I have been resisting for a long time.

I am not the man I was.

And I will never be that man again.

And that realization has taken me nineteen years to fully accept.

Nineteen years of trying to push through like determination alone could fix lungs and hearts.

Nineteen years of measuring myself against an older version that no longer exists.

Nineteen years of mistaking slower for lesser.

But I’m not lesser.

I’m adapting.

I’m still me—just in a slightly slower model. One that requires more planning, more patience, and sometimes portable oxygen I really should remember to bring.

And I still love this life.

Not because I love being sick. No one loves being sick. If chronic illness were optional, I’d decline immediately.

But I love that I can still show up.

I love that date afternoons still happen.

I love that my wife and I can wander into places we’ve never been and discover something new.

Slower isn’t the end.

It’s just different.

And different still gets you to the top.

Sometimes with a better view.

Sometimes with more appreciation.

And sometimes with a quiet understanding that meeting yourself where you are is not giving up—it’s moving forward.

One step at a time.

If this felt familiar—if you’ve ever stood at the bottom of something that used to be easy and had to rethink how you approach it—I’d love to hear about it in the comments. And if you want more posts like this, subscribe so you don’t miss the next one.