My Seizure - One Year Later
- Apr 22
- 4 min read
Founder's Notes: Today, April 22nd, marks one year since the worst seizure I've ever had.
I've lived with epilepsy for over 20 years now. But I'd never experienced a seizure like this, not physically.
This last one led to a fall down three steps, face first, landing on the ceramic coffee mug I was holding. Blunt force trauma to my face, body, and hands.
I'm still healing. My body has not fully recovered. The scars will remain.
I don't usually talk about this in detail. But it's one of those things that quietly changes everything, not all at once, but over time.
What the Past Year Actually Looked Like, And What Nobody Saw
What most people don't see is everything that comes after.
Yes, there's physical pain. But there's also the kind of pain that doesn't show up on an MRI.
Anger. Frustration. Agony. Helplessness. Guilt. Terror. And the biggest one, loss of autonomy. That's really what it's about for people living with epilepsy.
Still, despite it all, I know I'm one of the lucky ones.
My epilepsy is specific enough that I can plan around it, live around it, build around it. But even when you know your triggers, even when the window is narrow, there are still moments when it reaches through and takes something from you. A year ago today, that's exactly what happened.
Running a Business While Managing Something You Didn't Choose
I'm incredibly proud of what I've built with Mug Life Marketing. A business, a body of work, and relationships that genuinely mean something to me.
I don't personally see my epilepsy as a disability, though I know everyone's experience is different. When I get past the physical and mental weight of it, I think about how it's what drove me to build Mug Life on my own terms in the first place.
I don't typically share this side of myself. But if you're reading this and wondering how it's relevant to Mug Life Marketing, it has everything to do with it. I work with founders and leaders from all over the world who have overcome their own challenges. People who are beyond resilient. People who have genuinely inspired me. I share this because I hope it does the same for someone else.
What This Past Year Taught Me About Shame, Strength, and Showing Up
For a long time, I was ashamed. Ashamed to be different. Ashamed of the limitations I didn't choose.
That word "limitation" doesn't even exist in my personal or professional vocabulary. So to be limited by something I didn't choose has been one of the hardest things to accept. And yet I'm incredibly proud of what I've accomplished despite it. Personally and professionally.
Epilepsy is a disease. And I've had to learn how to accept and live with it since I was 17 years old. I'm consistently torn between wanting to go harder on everything in life and remembering that I do have boundaries to respect. That internal argument doesn't go away. It's a constant battle for me still today.
The Scars Remain, and They Mean Something
"My scars show pain and suffering, but they also show my will to survive." — Cheryl Rainfield
I love that quote.
Scars are strange things. They're the record of what happened, but they're also proof that you healed. That you kept going.
I have ones now that I'll carry forever. Visible ones. And I've made peace with the fact that they're part of the story. Not the whole story. Just part of it.
The hard things we go through don't disappear. They don't get erased. But they do become something you carry differently over time, less like a weight and more like a reminder of what you're made of. And trust me, I'm a badass.
One Year Later: A Reminder That Everything Can Change in a Moment
With epilepsy, courage doesn't always look the way people expect.
Most days, it just looks like continuing on. Working. Living. Showing up.
One year later, this feels less like a before-and-after moment and more like a reminder of how quickly everything can change. And how important it is to build a life that can hold you through that. A life with purpose. With people who show up for you. With work that means something.
I read something recently that really resonated with me:
Instead of "just another day," think of it as "another day less."
That perspective changes things. It makes the ordinary feel a little more worth protecting. A little more worth showing up for.
Yes, I fall. But I always get back up.
Thank you for following my Mug Life.
Pam, Founder & Creative Director
Supporting the Epilepsy Community
If this post moved you in any way, consider supporting Epilepsy Canada. Every bit of funding goes toward research, support programs, and helping people living with epilepsy across the country live fuller, more independent lives.
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