💜 November is Epilepsy Awareness Month. 💜

This one is personal.

There are parts of living with epilepsy that are difficult to put into words unless you've experienced them yourself.

The unpredictability. The fear of not knowing when another seizure might happen. The uncertainty of what your body might do, even on an otherwise completely ordinary day. The medications, the appointments, the adjustments, and the constant mental weight of living with something you cannot always control.

For me, epilepsy has been a journey of learning my body, navigating the unknown, and trying to explain something that isn't always visible to the people around me.

I knew sometbing wasnt right with my body long before 2022, but in 2022, I experienced a seizure while at work at a bank. Then, on July 5, 2024, my life took another unexpected turn. I experienced two grand mal seizures at home, in our bathroom. The physical aftermath was frightening, but what followed was something we could never have prepared for.

For months afterward, I struggled with my memory and with everyday basics of life. There were things I couldn't remember, pieces of my life that felt unfamiliar, and moments when I was trying to make sense of things that others around me remembered clearly.

And here I am, in the fall of 2026, still navigating this journey. I'm currently working with my medical team to establish a more clearly defined epilepsy diagnosis as my seizures have continued to break through medication and have become increasingly difficult to manage. What began as trying to understand my seizures has evolved into a much more extensive journey of testing, medication trials, and searching for answers as my seizure activity continues and worsens. 

My story with epilepsy isn't something that happened years ago and simply became part of my past. It's something I'm still actively living, learning about, and fighting to better understand.

People often think about epilepsy in terms of the seizure itself. But what happens afterward can be just as life-altering. The recovery, the injuries, the memory difficulties, the emotional toll, and the uncertainty don't simply disappear when the seizure ends.

Those experiences have changed me in ways that are difficult to explain.

And here's something else I wish more people understood about invisible illnesses:

You can look perfectly healthy and still be fighting something incredibly difficult.

People see me going to work, taking care of everyday responsibilities, smiling, laughing, and carrying on with life. They don't see the anxiety that comes with wondering when the next seizure might happen. They don't see the recovery, the exhaustion, the medication adjustments, or the countless conversations with doctors trying to find answers.

They don't see the uncertainty that comes with having seizures that don't always cooperate with treatment or show up when and how everyone hopes they will.

They also don't see the difficulties of navigating everyday life under seizure-related restrictions. Something as simple as losing the ability to drive for six months after a seizure can turn your entire routine upside down. Depending on state regulations and medical guidance, that can mean relying on other people for transportation, rearranging work and family responsibilities, missing out on everyday activities, and losing a piece of independence that many people never have to think twice about.

It's easy to take the freedom of getting in your car and going wherever you need to for granted until that freedom is suddenly taken away.

These are the everyday adjustments and sacrifices that often go unnoticed, but they are very real parts of living with epilepsy.

I've gone through numerous medication trials, failed multiple seizure medications, and continue to experience daily breakthrough seizures despite being on medication. I continue to experience nocturnal seizures as well as generalized seizures.

It's a process that hasn't always been easy. There are days when it's discouraging to continue experiencing seizures despite treatment. Days when I feel like I'm taking two steps forward and three steps back. And days when I just wish I had more answers.

There have been moments when all I've known to do is pray. Moments when I've questioned why this journey looks the way it does, when I've felt overwhelmed by the unknown, and when I've had to remind myself that even when I don't understand what's happening, God hasn't left my side.

My faith hasn't meant that I've never been afraid or discouraged. It's been something I've leaned on when I didn't have the answers and needed the strength to keep going.

Taking medication doesn't mean epilepsy disappears. And having seizures despite treatment doesn't mean someone isn't trying hard enough to manage their condition.

Sometimes, despite doing everything you're supposed to do, you're still fighting for answers and better seizure control.

I continue to advocate for myself because I know my experiences are real, I know something isn't right, and I deserve answers and the opportunity to find a treatment that gives me better control.

But through all of this, I keep going.

Not because it's easy. Not because I'm always strong. And certainly not because I've figured it all out.

I keep going because I'm still a daughter, a sister, a friend, a girlfriend, a prayer warrior in my church, a community volunteer, and a proud fur mom. I'm also a Commercial Relationship Specialist, where I show up, work hard, and take pride in what I do.

I have dreams of becoming a mother someday, goals I still want to accomplish, people I love, a community I care about, and a life I refuse to stop living.

My faith is woven into all of this, too. It reminds me that my circumstances don't define my worth, that I don't have to have every answer today, and that even in the most uncertain seasons, I am never walking through them alone.

I have so much more to my story than epilepsy, and I don't want this diagnosis to take away the things that make me who I am or keep me from the future I still dream about.

Epilepsy has challenged my independence, tested my patience, and changed the way I navigate everyday life. But it has also taught me compassion, resilience, and the importance of advocating for myself, even when I don't have all the answers.

I've learned that strength doesn't always look like having everything together. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you're scared. Sometimes it looks like asking more questions, pushing for answers, and speaking up when something doesn't feel right. And sometimes, strength is simply choosing to keep moving forward on the days you really don't feel like you can.

I didn't choose this diagnosis. I didn't choose the seizures, the injuries, the memory loss, the medications, or the uncertainty. But I am proud of the woman I've become while learning to live with all of it.

I don't know exactly what the next chapter of this journey will look like. I don't have all the answers, and I don't know when things will get easier. But I know where my hope is rooted.

I'm learning to trust God in the unanswered questions just as much as I trust Him in the answered prayers. My faith doesn't promise me a life without difficult seasons, but it reminds me that I don't have to walk through them alone.

Isaiah 41:10 reminds me:

"Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God."

If there's one thing I wish people understood about epilepsy, it's this:

Just because you haven't witnessed someone's seizure doesn't mean they aren't fighting a very real battle.

You don't have to see someone collapse to believe they're struggling. You don't have to witness an injury to understand the seriousness of their condition. And you shouldn't have to prove how sick you are to deserve understanding, compassion, or support.

I never wanted my worst moments to be the moments that made people believe me.

But I will continue using my voice, my experiences, and my story to help others understand what epilepsy can look like beyond what they think they know.

To anyone else navigating epilepsy: I see you. Even on the days nobody else sees what you're carrying. Even on the days you're exhausted from being strong. Even when the medications aren't working the way you hoped. Even when you're still searching for answers. You're not alone.

Epilepsy is more than a seizure. It's the fear, the recovery, the injuries, the memory struggles, the medication trials, the loss of independence, the driving restrictions, the uncertainty, the invisible battles, and the strength it takes to keep living life in between.

I am more than my seizures. I am more than my diagnosis. My journey is still unfolding, my story is still being written, and I will continue to live it out loud.

Because awareness starts when we stop staying silent. -Breanna R. Bland