January 31st, 2020. A date that will forever live in my memory. It started as an ordinary day — a walk to the shop with my mum and little sister. The sun was out, the air was crisp, and there was nothing unusual about it. I was laughing, joking, just enjoying the moment like any other day.
And then… everything changed.
Seizures don’t always give you warning. Some come without a hint, without a signal, without time to prepare. That day, I had no warning at all. One second, I was walking; the next, I was hitting the concrete face-first. The world went black. Pain and confusion took over.
When I came to, I was in the back of an ambulance. The throbbing pain in my face was immediate, sharp, and unrelenting. My right cheekbone had fractured. Blood smeared my face. My lips were cut. Panic and fear swirled around me as I tried to understand what had just happened. My mum and little sister looked terrified. Their faces were etched with worry, but they tried to stay calm for me.
Even in that moment, humor surfaced. I took a shaky selfie in the back of the ambulance and posted it on Facebook with the caption: “I think my modelling career is over.” It sounds ridiculous now, but at the time, it was my way of coping. Humor has always been my shield, my way to find light in the darkness. That small joke reminded me — I was still here. I was still standing, even if only slightly.
The night in the hospital was long. Machines beeped steadily beside me. Nurses came and went. Doctors checked on me constantly, monitoring my brain activity and making sure nothing worse had happened. Lying there, I had a moment to think — a moment to truly reflect on my life. And one thought echoed louder than all the fear: “Is this my life now?” The uncertainty terrified me more than the injury itself. Not knowing when the next seizure would hit, or how bad it might be, made me feel helpless.
Returning home was another challenge. The bruises and swelling on my face were reminders of that fall. Every glance in the mirror was a confrontation with vulnerability. But over the following days, a shift started to happen inside me. The pain was temporary, but my resilience wasn’t. That seizure, as painful and frightening as it was, taught me something essential: I am stronger than I think.
That day didn’t just leave a physical scar; it left a deeper, more meaningful one. It taught me that life can change in an instant, that our bodies may fail us, but our spirit doesn’t have to. It was the beginning of a journey — a journey where I decided that living with epilepsy would not mean living in fear. I made a promise to myself: “If I’m going to live with epilepsy, I’m going to live with purpose.”
Sharing my story is part of that purpose. I share it to remind others that even when life knocks you down — even when you fall face-first into the concrete — you can rise again. You can find your strength, your courage, and your light. Humor, resilience, and self-belief are tools that help you survive, and eventually, thrive.
That seizure could have broken me, but it didn’t. Instead, it became a turning point — the moment I realized my power, my perseverance, and the importance of telling my story. Every bruise, every scar, every fear I endured taught me something invaluable: that even in the darkest moments, hope exists. And that hope is worth holding onto, fiercely and without apology.
That day changed everything. It left a scar on my face, but it lit a fire in my heart — one that still burns to this day.
– My Epilepsy Journey
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