On December 9th, 2020, my life changed forever. I was just 16, sitting in a Zoom class, when I had my first tonic-clonic seizure. I woke up face down on the floor, blood on my face, with no memory of what had happened. The look of fear on my parents’ faces when I ran into their room is something I will never forget.
From that day forward, epilepsy became a part of my life — hospital stays, endless tests, and countless medications. At 16, I was supposed to be driving with friends, finishing high school, gaining my independence — but instead, I was having seizures in class and doing homework from a hospital bed.
In 2022, after trying every medication, I was diagnosed with drug-resistant epilepsy. That summer, just a month before I was supposed to move away to college, I underwent brain surgery to implant an RNS device. Independence had finally seemed within reach, but the fear of when the next seizure might strike never left me.
Still, my story isn’t a tragedy — it’s a story of strength. I refused to stay quiet. I shared my journey openly, showing the world both the triumphs and the setbacks of living with epilepsy. In doing so, I met others who were struggling, people who felt ashamed or alone. I became their voice, their support, their reminder that epilepsy is nothing to hide.
One time in high school, I had a seizure in math class and ended up with a black eye. Was I scared to walk back in the next day? Maybe. But I held my head high and told everyone I got in a fistfight with a bear. Epilepsy has taught me that some things in life you cannot change, but you can change how you face them.
The universe gives its hardest battles to its strongest soldiers. Today, I am about to graduate from The Ohio State University with degrees in neuroscience and psychology. Epilepsy did not take my future from me — it made me stronger, braver, and more determined. You can still live your life with epilepsy. Not every storm lasts forever.
If we found a cure for epilepsy, it would mean finally being free. Free from the fear of when the next seizure might come. Free from the side effects of medications that steal pieces of who I am. A cure would mean I could step into the world with the same confidence and safety as everyone else — without hesitation, without looking over my shoulder. But even more than that, it would mean peace for my family. No more silent worry behind their eyes, no more racing to my side every time I fall. It would give them the gift of knowing, truly knowing, that I will be okay. That is what I dream of — a world where epilepsy no longer controls our lives, where strength is no longer forced upon us, and where our futures are no longer defined by this condition. A cure would mean freedom, hope, and healing — not just for me, but for every person and every family who has ever faced this battle.