When I was 14 years old, my world shifted on its axis.

In a period of life that’s already riddled with social awkwardness and self-discovery, I had my first tonic-clonic seizure. One moment I was a “normal teenager”, and the next, my family was calling an ambulance, filled with worry. Soon, other types of seizures followed, and my neurologist started me on anti-seizure medication.

Determined to remain the person I was before, the girl who didn’t need pills to get through the day, I refused to take my medication unless “absolutely necessary”. The denial led to more seizures, each one pulling me further from the life I had before.

The Weight of a New Reality

Having a new diagnosis that altered my life so completely was heartbreaking. I fell into a deep depression that poisoned my relationships, my grades, and my sense of self. I felt isolated from my family and friends, like I was watching my own life from behind a thick wall of glass. When asked about my future, I responded with what I thought I should say. The truth was a deep cry within me: I have no idea, because I’ve already had to mourn the loss of so many dreams.

College became a constant quest to find a new path. I tried on different majors, eventually graduating with four different associates degrees rather than settling on one, my health playing the leading role in what felt possible. Still, I found moments of success. I excelled in customer service roles and even discovered a passion for psychology while working as an ABA technician. After many years, I finally felt like I had a solid handle on things. I knew my triggers, had a medication routine, and was more confident than I had ever been.

The Rug Gets Pulled Out From Under You, Again

Then one day, while standing in my kitchen, the world started tilting. I felt intensely lightheaded and dizzy whenever I moved, and a quick check revealed my heart rate was skyrocketing to 150 BPM from a simple walk across the room. My doctor, whom I am forever grateful for, recognized it wasn’t just anxiety and urged me to see a cardiologist.

Her concern pushed me to investigate, and after a year of worsening symptoms and countless specialist visits, I was diagnosed with POTS.

A darkness I hadn’t felt in a while suddenly eclipsed my life once again. I went from a healthy adult who lifted weights, went on hikes, and held a steady job to someone who was mostly bedridden and overwhelmed by fatigue. Broken once more, I fell into another, darker depression. I asked God why He seemed intent on making me suffer. I watched the lives of my friends unfold as planned while I had to try to rewrite my goals once again, each erasure another torture. Disillusioned and deteriorating, I blamed any misfortune or failure on my propensity for suffering. When flare ups occurred, I begged for death to ease the pain of existence.

The Breakthrough in the Breaking

They say God works in mysterious ways. I never really understood the meaning of that phrase until I was hospitalized earlier this year.

My body had become so weak I couldn’t hold up my own head. I couldn’t open my eyes, chew, or lift my arms. My vocal chords were so weak my voice was barely above a whisper. The ER doctor noted I had almost no sensation in my fingers. Struck with worry, my family fought to advocate for me since I couldn’t do so on my own. But the medical staff was incredible, it turned out we had nothing to worry about. Every nurse was considerate and compassionate, listening to my needs and symptoms rather than writing them off because of my POTS diagnosis. While my family watched over me in the hospital, I even witnessed family members who were typically at odds communicating and supporting each other.

Suddenly, in that hospital bed, a profound shift occurred. Lying there, as helpless as a ragdoll, I realized: yes, this is a challenging, painful situation, but it can be used for good.

My perspective on life was permanently altered. After I was discharged, I listened to family bickering with a small smile, just glad to be home to hear them. I felt a wave of gratitude for having the strength to open my eyes and brush my teeth. I no longer wanted to be rid of my life; I wanted to treasure every messy, beautiful, and painful part of it. I was ashamed for ever having taken it for granted.

A New Hope

The weakness I experienced is suspected to be Myasthenia Gravis. A third potential diagnosis. But this time, I don’t grieve the loss of old plans. I embrace the change it brings—the joy I can share, the relationships I can cherish.

This might be an unorthodox perspective, but it has freed me from the chains of depression and loss. Our health journeys are incredibly difficult, but I encourage you to hold on to the people in your life. They are the pillars of our survival. It’s easy for our diagnoses to make us feel like a burden, but we can always shift our focus to hold space for gratitude and love.

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What has been a turning point in your own health journey? I’d love to hear your story in the comments below.