Lately, I feel like I have a lot on my mind.

As I sit down to write this, I’m still not entirely sure what this post is supposed to be about. I don’t know what the lesson is, what conclusion I’m trying to reach, or even what I’m hoping to work through by the time I get to the end.

Maybe that’s the point.

For more than a week, I’ve been thinking about what I wanted to write about next. Usually, I can grab onto an idea and run with it. This time, there were too many. Every time I settled on one, another thought pushed its way forward.

Epilepsy.

Motherhood.

Mental health.

School.

My future.

Writing.

The pressure I’ve been putting on myself.

And strangely enough, it took getting away from my everyday life for a few days to realize that maybe all of those things are connected.

Last week, I went on a girls’ trip with my mom and sister to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. We left Wednesday evening and finally arrived at our Harry Potter-themed Airbnb around 12:30 in the morning.

It was a great trip. We had fun, made memories, and for a couple of days, I got to take a small step away from the constant responsibilities that come with motherhood.

But one of my favorite parts of the entire trip was something incredibly simple:

It was quiet.

Don’t get me wrong. I love hearing my kids laugh. I love watching them play, learn new things, ask questions, and discover the world around them.

But for a few days, nobody called me “Mom.”

Nobody needed a snack.

Nobody needed help finding something that was somehow directly in front of them.

Nobody needed me to solve a problem.

I was just Katelyn.

I got to have fun. I got to relax.

And, maybe most importantly, my brain finally had a little room to think.

Except I realized something while it was thinking.

My brain doesn’t exactly know how to be quiet.

Before I explain that, I need to go back a few years.

It was the end of September or beginning of October 2023, shortly after my youngest, Declyn, was born.

I wasn’t breastfeeding. He had spent time in the NICU, and after breastfeeding hadn’t gone particularly well with my oldest, Braxtyn, I didn’t have much desire to force it this time. I did, however, pump and give him whatever milk I was able to produce.

One night, I had just finished pumping.

I remember sitting in our recliner. My husband was on the couch, and we were watching a show together.

Then nothing.

The next thing I remember, I “woke up.”

There were police officers and EMTs standing in my living room, looking at me.

I had absolutely no idea what had happened.

Turns out, I’d had a seizure.

And unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be my last.

Since then, seizures have become part of my life.

I want to make something very clear when I talk about epilepsy: my epilepsy is nowhere near as severe as Braxtyn’s. I’ve watched what epilepsy has done to him, and our experiences aren’t comparable in severity.

But there is one thing this diagnosis has given me.

I understand, at least in my own way, how much a seizure can take from you.

Doctors have done testing, but we still don’t have a satisfying explanation for why I have seizures. We just know that I do.

Almost a year ago, I finally found a medication that controls them fairly well.

And you’d think that would be the end of the story.

Take the medication. Control the seizures. Move on.

Except epilepsy doesn’t exist in its own little box.

Neither does mental illness.

And when you’re dealing with both, sometimes treating one makes treating the other much more complicated.

I’ve dealt with mental illness for around 11 years. I’ve tried to find medications and treatments that work. But epilepsy has taken some options off the table. Certain medications can increase seizure risk. Some treatments, such as TMS, may not be appropriate for someone with my seizure history.

After searching for answers for more than a decade, being told that another potential option isn’t suitable for me can be incredibly frustrating.

Sometimes it feels like I’m standing in front of a hallway full of doors and someone keeps quietly locking them.

And even the treatment that helps control the seizures comes with its own cost.

What does a seizure actually look like?

When most people hear the word “seizure,” I think they picture one particular thing: someone falling to the ground and violently shaking.

That is one kind of seizure, but epilepsy can look very different depending on the type of seizure a person experiences.

I experience generalized tonic-clonic seizures.

During a generalized tonic-clonic seizure, abnormal electrical activity involves both sides of the brain. The person loses consciousness, and the seizure typically has two phases.

During the tonic phase, the muscles suddenly stiffen. The person may fall, their breathing can become irregular, and they may make a sound as their muscles contract.

Then comes the clonic phase, when the arms and legs begin rhythmically jerking. Eventually, those movements slow down and stop.

The active seizure itself is often relatively short, usually lasting only a few minutes.

But “the seizure stopped” does not necessarily mean “everything is fine now.”

That’s the part I wish more people understood.

The seizure might last minutes. Recovery can last much longer.

After a seizure comes something called the postictal period.

Immediately afterward, a person may be completely exhausted. They might breathe heavily, have their eyes open without really understanding what’s happening, struggle to answer questions, have difficulty speaking, become frightened or irritated, or not immediately recognize where they are.

They may have absolutely no memory of what just happened.

They might try to stand up even though their brain and body aren’t ready for that yet.

And sometimes, they just fall asleep.

Then comes the aftermath.

Headaches.

Muscle soreness.

Jaw or tongue pain.

Weakness.

Dizziness.

Nausea.

Brain fog.

Memory problems.

Difficulty concentrating.

Difficulty finding words.

Emotional sensitivity.

And exhaustion that sleep doesn’t always immediately fix.

Imagine trying to have a complicated conversation when your brain feels like it’s moving through molasses.

You might technically be awake. You might look fine. You might even be laughing and talking.

But your brain still doesn’t feel like your brain.

Depending on the person’s epilepsy and where they live, seizures can also affect things most people take for granted, including the ability to drive. Driving restrictions after seizures vary, and some people may need to remain seizure-free for a certain period or receive medical clearance before driving again.

It’s another reminder that a seizure doesn’t necessarily end when the shaking stops.

But here’s another thing people don’t always realize:

Not all seizures involve shaking at all.

My most common seizures are much quieter.

Another type I experience is an absence seizure.

An absence seizure can look like a brief interruption in awareness.

A person may suddenly stop talking.

They may stare blankly.

Their eyelids might flutter.

They may make tiny movements with their mouth or hands.

And then, a few seconds later, they’re back.

Sometimes it’s only five or ten seconds.

Imagine someone saying:

“I was going to tell you about…”

Then nothing.

A blank stare.

And several seconds later:

“…the movie we watched last night.”

It’s almost as though someone pressed pause and then hit play again.

The person often doesn’t even realize it happened.

Unlike a tonic-clonic seizure, a typical absence seizure generally doesn’t have the same prolonged recovery afterward. You aren’t necessarily sore or exhausted. You might simply continue what you were doing.

But that doesn’t mean they aren’t disruptive.

Imagine losing five, ten, or twenty seconds of a conversation without realizing you lost anything.

Now imagine it happening repeatedly.

What did the person just say?

Did I already answer that question?

Why did everyone suddenly move on to something else?

Was I listening?

Did I forget?

Sometimes the missing pieces are so small that nobody else even notices them.

Then there’s the medication.

Finding a medication that controls seizures sounds like the finish line.

Sometimes it’s actually another starting line.

Anti-seizure medications can cause things like fatigue, dizziness, headaches, nausea, blurred or double vision, coordination problems, difficulty concentrating, slowed thinking, trouble finding words, mood changes, and that wonderful little phenomenon we affectionately call brain fog.

So you find yourself in an interesting situation.

The medication helps your brain.

The medication can also make your brain feel slower.

Which finally brings me back to Coeur d’Alene.

Somewhere on that drive, I realized something about myself.

Thoughts are constantly running through my head.

And I mean constantly.

Sometimes they’re moving so quickly that I can barely keep up with them myself.

But then someone asks me a question.

Suddenly, all those thoughts that were racing through my brain refuse to form themselves into sentences.

I know what I want to say.

I can feel the thought sitting there.

But turning it into words quickly enough to participate in a conversation?

That’s different.

By the time I’ve figured out exactly how I want to explain something, the conversation has already moved three exits down the highway.

And I realized that maybe that’s part of why writing has always been so therapeutic for me.

Writing gives me time.

Nobody is waiting for me to finish my sentence.

Nobody starts talking because I’ve paused too long.

I can type something, stare at it, delete it, rewrite it, move a sentence somewhere else, and finally say:

Yes. That’s what I meant.

Writing lets me translate the jumbled mess inside my head into something another person can actually understand.

But I wish I could do that when I’m speaking, too.

I want to have intelligent conversations about politics and history and true crime.

I want someone to tell me what’s bothering them and be able to sit across from them and offer thoughtful advice instead of needing twenty minutes and a text message to figure out how to phrase what I’m trying to say.

I want to engage people in conversation.

Somewhere along the way, I started feeling like I don’t know how anymore.

And that’s difficult to admit.

I’ve put an incredible amount of pressure on myself.

Especially over the last few years, as I’ve worked harder on my mental health, I’ve somehow created this imaginary version of myself that I’m constantly trying to catch.

The perfect mom.

The perfect wife.

The perfect friend.

The perfect daughter.

The perfect sister.

The perfect student.

And apparently, in my head, this imaginary woman is also articulate, emotionally intelligent, endlessly patient, academically successful, socially confident, and capable of immediately producing the perfect response to every conversation she has.

She sounds exhausting.

And anything less than her has started to feel like failure.

So when I can’t even get my thoughts out of my head the way I want to, it feeds this quiet little voice telling me I’m inadequate.

I’m beginning to realize how unfair that is.

For a long time, I’ve wanted to become a counselor after finishing school.

This trip made me confront something I didn’t particularly want to confront:

I don’t know if I can do that right now.

At least not until my memory and processing speed improve.

And maybe they will.

Maybe medication will change.

Maybe my brain will recover in ways I can’t predict.

Maybe I’ll eventually sit across from someone and discover that I’m much more capable than I’m currently giving myself credit for.

Or maybe my path will change.

I don’t know yet.

And for someone who desperately wants to know what comes next, that’s uncomfortable.

For now, I’m going to stay in school.

I’m going to take care of my family.

I’m going to keep working on myself.

And I’m going to write.

Because maybe writing isn’t just something I enjoy doing.

Maybe it’s the place where my brain finally gets permission to move at its own speed.

I started this post saying I didn’t know what I wanted it to be about.

I think I understand now.

Maybe it’s about epilepsy.

Maybe it’s about motherhood.

Maybe it’s about mental health, medication, school, or the future.

But mostly, I think it’s about learning that the person I am right now doesn’t have to be measured against the person I thought I would be.

My brain has been through a lot.

I’ve been through a lot.

Maybe I don’t need to punish myself because my words occasionally take the scenic route from my brain to my mouth.

Maybe I can give myself the same patience I would give someone else.

I’m still figuring out what my future looks like.

I’m still figuring out who I am outside of being “Mom.”

I’m still figuring out which limitations are temporary, which ones I’ll learn to work around, and which ones might eventually lead me somewhere completely different.

And maybe quiet strength isn’t always pushing through something until you conquer it.

Sometimes it’s recognizing that you’re allowed to change the plan.

So I’ll leave you with something I’ve been asking myself:

Have you ever had to let go of the person you thought you were supposed to be and learn to accept the person you are right now? What did that look like for you?

I’d genuinely love to hear about it in the comments.