More Than a Diagnosis

My name is Damani, and I have epilepsy. It started as something small. A strange feeling I couldn’t explain. My vision warped. My thoughts twisted. I didn’t know it then, but I was having a focal seizure. Within moments, it escalated. I lost control. My body seized for 13 minutes in a full tonic-clonic seizure. That moment changed my life. When I woke up, I wasn’t the same. I was terrified. Confused and angry. Not just because of what happened, but because no one could prepare me for what was coming next: the tests, the scans, the medications, the silence from people who didn’t know how to talk about it.

Eventually, I was given a name for what was happening inside me: Left Mesial Temporal Sclerosis—a form of scarring deep in the left temporal lobe of my brain, right inside the hippocampus. That’s the part of the brain tied to memory and emotion. The diagnosis explained the seizures, the blank spaces in my memory, and the emotional waves I couldn’t always control. It’s linked to temporal lobe epilepsy, and suddenly, all the symptoms I’d been struggling with had a name… but knowing didn’t make it easier.

I couldn’t work. It felt like my entire life had been put on pause. My days became a blur of doctor visits, medication changes, and therapy sessions. It was overwhelming, trying to accept that my brain had been completely reset. My memory isn’t what it used to be. The small details—names, conversations, moments—slip away from me like smoke. I’ve pulled away from family, not because I don’t love them, but because I don’t want to feel like a burden. There’s this quiet fear that people are judging me, even when they don’t say anything. And that fear can be isolating.

But in that silence, I found something else: art. Creating became my outlet and my language when words failed. Through it, I started to process the confusion, the grief, and even the beauty in this new version of me. Every piece helps me feel more seen. It gives me the courage to open up again, little by little, and remind myself that I’m still here. Still whole. Still worthy of connection.

My daughter is my greatest inspiration. She sees my art before anyone else does. Her favorite color is purple—the color of epilepsy awareness—and now, it’s become part of my signature. She reminds me that I’m more than this condition. That I still have a purpose. That there’s still so much beauty left to create.

I used to ask, “Why me?” Now I ask, “How can I make this mean something?” Through every sculpture, every surreal image, every glowing detail, I’m telling the story epilepsy tried to silence. I’m not hiding anymore. I’m illuminating what it means to live with this condition, and turning the stigma into something powerful, something human, and something real. I found a place where people would listen and not judge. A place of understanding. If you’re reading this and you’ve felt alone, misunderstood, or scared...You are light. You are strong. And your story matters too.

You are more than a diagnosis.
You are strength wrapped in vulnerability.
You are clarity in the middle of confusion.
You are resilient with a rhythm of your own.

Every seizure you’ve survived is proof:
You’ve faced the storm—and you’re still standing.
Maybe not untouched. Maybe not unchanged.
But still here. Still creating. Still worthy.

It’s okay to be tired.
It’s okay to grieve the things you’ve lost.
But don’t forget what you still hold—
Courage. Creativity. Purpose. Power.

You are not alone.
Even when it feels like no one gets it.
There’s a community here that does.
And we see you. Completely.

Your story is not over.
You are still unfolding.
And the world still needs the light you carry—
especially the kind that shines through struggle.