Yesterday, I experienced something terrifying.

And today, I’m left wondering whether the scariest part was what happened to my body or how quickly I felt dismissed by the healthcare system that was supposed to help me.

For those who don’t know, I was diagnosed with epilepsy about three years ago. Over those years, I’ve learned quite a bit about seizures, both through my own experiences and through raising a child with severe, treatment-resistant epilepsy.

Seizures aren’t unfamiliar territory in our household.

But what happened yesterday was different.

And that’s exactly why I needed someone to listen.

Yesterday was supposed to be an exciting day for our family.

Local News 8 was coming to our house to interview my son, Braxtyn, about his journey and his participation in the Super Kid competition. (https://thesuperkid.org/2026/braxtyn-7842)

If you’ve followed our story, you know how much that little boy has been through. Having the opportunity to share his strength and resilience with our community was something I was incredibly excited about.

Naturally, I wanted everything to be perfect.

So, in true mom fashion, I stayed up all night cleaning.

And when I say all night, I mean I didn’t sleep. At all.

I had a sugar-free Monster, took my prescribed Vyvanse, and had hardly eaten anything. I’ve also been dealing with an overwhelming amount of stress lately between motherhood, school, my own health, and everything else life has decided to throw my way.

Looking back, I can recognize that I wasn’t exactly setting myself up for success.

But I also know that sleep deprivation is a major seizure trigger, particularly for someone who already has epilepsy.

After the news crew left, things started going downhill.

My eyes began fluttering repeatedly. My thoughts became difficult to organize. People were talking to me, and although I could hear them, I couldn’t seem to formulate the words to respond.

I knew something wasn’t right.
So I went to sit down.

And then it started.

I felt the familiar fluttering in my eyes, followed by a strange wave through my head.

Then my muscles began to shake.

But unlike my usual seizures, I was aware of what was happening.

I could hear people around me. I knew where I was. I knew what my body was doing.

I just couldn’t make it stop.

I remember fighting so hard to come out of it.

At one point, I remember yelling, “Get me out of it!”

For the past year and a half, I’ve been relatively seizure-free. After years of living with epilepsy, I’ve finally reached a point where I have my driver’s license and a sense of independence that I once worried I might never have again.

And in that moment, all I could think about was how terrified I was of losing it.

In Idaho, seizure-related driving restrictions can mean having to go months without driving again. I’d already made it six weeks since my last seizure-like episode, and I desperately didn’t want to start that clock over.

Because when you’re a mother of two young children, being able to drive isn’t just a convenience. It’s how you get your kids to appointments, take them to school, run errands, and maintain some sense of normalcy.

And after spending so much of my life feeling like my health dictates what I can and cannot do, the possibility of losing another piece of my independence was devastating.

But no matter how badly I wanted to stop what was happening, my body wasn’t cooperating.

Eventually, the episode ended.

Then another started.

And another.

And another.

Some lasted around thirty seconds. Others lasted several minutes.

By the time I arrived at the emergency room, I’d experienced approximately ten seizure-like episodes.

And I was scared.

Not necessarily because I thought I was dying, but because I didn’t understand what was happening to me.

I’ve lived with epilepsy for years. I know what my typical seizures look and feel like.

These were different.

I needed answers.

When I arrived at the emergency room, I went to the bathroom.

As I came out, another episode began.

I was placed in a wheelchair and taken into a room while it was happening.

And before I had even settled into the patient bed, I felt as though the physician had already decided what was wrong with me.

Psychogenic nonepileptic seizures.

Also known as PNES, or what many people still refer to as “pseudoseizures.”

Now, before I go any further, I want to make something very clear.

PNES is real.

These episodes are not someone pretending to have seizures. They aren’t something a person simply chooses to experience. They’re involuntary neurological events that can be frightening, exhausting, and debilitating.

And yes, someone can have both epilepsy and PNES.

I have absolutely no problem with a physician considering PNES as a possible explanation for what happened to me.

What I have a problem with is feeling like the conclusion was reached before my experience was even heard.

I wasn’t asked to walk through what happened before arriving at the hospital.

I didn’t get the opportunity to explain the eye fluttering, the wave through my head, or the feeling of being trapped inside my body.

I didn’t get to explain how the episodes started, how they progressed, or why they felt different from my usual seizures.

At least, not in the meaningful conversation I needed.

Instead, I felt like I was being observed, categorized, medicated, and discharged.

I was given Ativan, an anti-anxiety medication that is also used to treat certain epileptic seizure emergencies.

Bloodwork was performed.

No EEG was done.

And I went home with a diagnosis of nonepileptic convulsions.

But here’s what really bothers me.

Afterward, I read through my emergency room physician’s report.

According to the documentation, the doctor believed my episodes were more consistent with PNES or an anxiety reaction because I remained conscious, could reportedly answer questions, and didn’t experience an obvious period of confusion afterward.

But here’s the problem.
I remember my husband answering questions about my medical history and medications.

I also remember experiencing a smaller episode of leg shaking that was different from the more extensive episodes I’d been having.

And while I remained aware during the larger episodes, I felt physically unable to respond.

Those distinctions matter to me.

Perhaps the physician observed something that strongly suggested PNES. Perhaps his assessment will ultimately turn out to be correct.

I’m not a neurologist, and I’m not claiming to know more than someone who has spent years studying medicine.

But I am the person who experienced those episodes.

And I believe my account deserves to be part of the assessment.

A doctor can recognize clinical signs that a patient doesn’t understand. That’s why we seek medical care.

But a patient can also describe experiences that a doctor cannot see.

Shouldn’t both perspectives matter?

When Stress Becomes the Explanation for Everything

I think this is the part that has left me feeling particularly emotional.

Yes, I’m stressed.

I’m a mother of two young boys, one of whom has complex medical needs and severe epilepsy.

I’m attending college full-time, studying psychology.

I’m dealing with my own chronic health conditions, and lately, my physical health hasn’t exactly been cooperating.

Some days, I feel like I’m holding together a dozen different pieces of my life with whatever energy I have left.

So yes.

I’m stressed.

But when did being stressed mean that our physical symptoms deserve less investigation?

When did anxiety become an explanation that could seemingly close the conversation rather than open another one?

Stress can contribute to functional neurological symptoms.

But stress can also trigger epileptic seizures.

And sometimes, people who are stressed still have completely unrelated medical problems.

These possibilities aren’t mutually exclusive.

I don’t need someone to tell me my life is stressful.

I already know.

What I need is someone willing to help me understand what happened to my body.

Something else I wish more people understood is that not every epileptic seizure involves losing consciousness.

Some people remain aware throughout an episode. Some experience involuntary movements while still understanding everything happening around them. Others temporarily lose the ability to speak or respond.

And not every epileptic seizure produces the same recovery period.

That doesn’t mean my episodes were necessarily epileptic.

It means the distinction can be complicated.

Video EEG monitoring, which records brain activity alongside a person’s physical symptoms, is an important tool for distinguishing epileptic seizures from functional seizures.

I understand that an emergency room cannot perform every neurological test on every patient.

I understand that physicians have to make decisions quickly.

I understand that emergency medicine is largely about determining whether someone is safe enough to go home.

But I also believe there’s a difference between saying, “Based on what I’ve observed, I suspect these may be nonepileptic episodes, and here’s why,” and leaving a patient feeling like the diagnosis was settled before their story was heard.

One invites understanding.
The other leaves room for doubt, frustration, and fear.

We need to do better.

I don’t believe every disappointing medical experience is the result of a bad doctor.

Healthcare professionals are human. They’re overworked, often understaffed, and expected to make complicated decisions under enormous pressure.

I recognize that.

But recognizing the challenges of healthcare doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask for better.

Especially when it comes to neurological conditions that can be difficult to distinguish from one another.

Patients experiencing seizures deserve to have their medical history considered.

They deserve to have their symptoms explained.

They deserve to understand why a particular diagnosis is suspected and what evidence supports it.

And when uncertainty remains, they deserve to know that, too.

Because uncertainty isn’t a failure.

Sometimes, “I don’t know yet” is the most responsible answer a healthcare professional can give.

I would much rather leave an emergency room knowing that more investigation is needed than leave with a diagnosis I don’t fully understand and questions nobody took the time to answer.

I wanted someone to understand how terrifying it was to feel my body shaking while my mind remained aware.

How helpless I felt trying to communicate and being unable to.

How heartbreaking it was to think that after nearly a year and a half of relative seizure freedom, I could suddenly be facing the possibility of losing my ability to drive again.

Not because I don’t understand the importance of driving restrictions for people with seizures. I absolutely do. I understand why those rules exist, and I would never want to put myself, my children, or anyone else on the road in danger.

But understanding the reasoning doesn’t make the possibility of losing that independence any less painful.

And most importantly, I wanted someone to understand how frightening it is to experience something completely different from your usual neurological symptoms without understanding why.

I’ve spent years advocating for my son in the healthcare system.

I’ve learned to ask questions, research conditions, speak up when something doesn’t seem right, and push for answers when answers aren’t easy to find.

But advocating for yourself is different.

Especially when you’re exhausted, frightened, medicated, and physically struggling to communicate.

Those are the moments when patients are most vulnerable.
And those are the moments when compassionate, thorough communication matters most.

I don’t expect healthcare professionals to have every answer.

I don’t expect every emergency room visit to end with a definitive diagnosis.

But I do hope we can create a healthcare system where patients aren’t left feeling that their stories are an inconvenience.

Where psychological explanations are taken seriously without automatically overshadowing physical ones.

Where a diagnosis is the beginning of a conversation rather than the end of one.

And where patients leave understanding not just what a doctor thinks happened, but why.

Because sometimes, the most important thing a healthcare professional can do isn’t order another test, prescribe another medication, or write another diagnosis.

Sometimes, it’s simply sitting down, looking at the person in front of them, and asking:

“Can you tell me what happened?”

And then actually listening.