For the past ten days, I've been trying to gather my thoughts about the day that changed everything. A mere few minutes of the day, ten years ago, September 14th, 2014, would change my life as I knew it. I didn't know then how much that single afternoon would alter the course of my life and my family's forever. A seemingly ordinary day suddenly becomes a dividing line between my "before" and "after."
It was like any other late summer day in the Carolinas. The heat clung to the air, thick and heavy, as it often does in the Southeast. Even as the skies darkened with the familiar threat of thunderstorms, there was nothing extraordinary about it—just another steamy afternoon hinting at rain. As I left the office early, I remember feeling the weight of the heat pressing down on me, sweat beginning to form on my brow. I wasn't leaving for leisure, though. I needed privacy to make a difficult phone call involving a family member caught up in trouble, a situation where I could help him. I walked to my car, grateful for the tiny bit of solitude it offered.
The phone call lasted only a few minutes, leaving me hopeful I could make a difference in this situation. I was satisfied with my decision to get involved as I approached the red light at the parking lot exit. The light turned green, and I began to make my left turn onto the road. That's when everything changed.
I saw the car approaching its red light, but I realized too late that it wasn't slowing down. Instinctively, I slammed on the brakes. That quick action likely saved my life, but it did nothing to save me from the life-altering collision that followed.
The world around me seemed to slow down, and the sound of my radio faded into a distant hum. The screech of tires, the deafening crash, and the sudden, violent jolt as the car slammed into mine. My head whipped to the side, colliding with the window with a force that felt like a sledgehammer.
The slow-moving moment sped up. The impact sent shockwaves through my skull, leaving me dazed, disoriented, and with a feeling that something had shifted inside of me, not just physically but emotionally, and in that instant, everything went dark.
When my vision returned, I first saw the glaring green light urging me to drive forward as if nothing had happened. But I knew, deep down, that my car would never move again. My entire body ached with the impact, but nothing hit me harder than the sight of that damn green light taunting me.
Then I saw him, the driver who hit me. His face came into focus, and rage ignited within me, fueled by the shock and adrenaline coursing through my veins. I could feel it burning in every fiber of my being. I forced the crushed door open with sheer fury, every muscle straining as I pushed through the twisted metal. I burst from the car, my head pounding, struggling to stay upright. The world spun around me, but I found my balance, ready to tear into the person responsible for the wreckage and pain.
I saw him just as I was about to unleash all my anger. He was young, no more than twenty, and crying uncontrollably. His tears fell in streams, and in an instant, the molten anger inside me cooled. The storm of rage was over as fast as it had come, leaving me standing there, chest heaving, unsure of what to feel anymore.
Despite the fire in my chest and the urge to strike something, a single thought cut through the fury, he was someone's son. In that instant, I pictured my son, nearly old enough to be behind the wheel, and the anger in my soul faded. My skull throbbed with the aftermath of the crash, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. His terrified eyes, overflowing like Niagara Falls, shattered something inside me just as much as the impact had broken my brain.
I found myself trying to calm him down as people from the office began spilling outside—some to offer help, others driven by curiosity, and a few simply heading home for the day. My co-workers' faces blurred together as they gathered, each with their reasons for being there, while I focused on the trembling kid before me.
The police arrived swiftly, taking control of the scene with professionalism. They were outstanding in handling the situation, offering me, a retired brother in blue, all the help I needed. Even though my time on the force was 1,200 miles away, seeing the camaraderie and courtesy of the Thin Blue Line in action was heartening.
They also treated the young driver with compassion, at least until they pointed out the skid marks he left behind. His claim that he wasn't speeding didn't hold up long. The officer calmly but firmly explained that the length of those skid marks, which was quite extensive, made it clear he was well over 60 mph in the speed zone. The reality of his mistake was impossible to deny, and he had no idea the ramifications of that moment.
Imagine a pristine glass window, clear and unblemished, representing the life you once knew. Then, without warning, a stone is hurled at it, shattering the glass into countless fragments. Each shard reflects a piece of your past, but the window can never be whole again. The accident was that stone and the life I knew splintered into a mosaic of memories and altered realities
Before the accident, I was a father, a husband, and a professional, navigating the familiar paths of my existence. But the collision, with its violent force and sudden impact, jolted me into a new reality. The sound of metal crunching, the sensation of my head slamming against the window, and the subsequent darkness marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
The concussion revealed its true cost in the days and weeks that followed. Seizures became an unwelcome part of my life, unpredictable and terrifying. The freedom I once took for granted—driving, working, even playing with my kids—was overshadowed by the constant fear of the next episode. The accident had not only injured my body but had also imprisoned my spirit, creating a new normal that was anything but.
The concussion was the final blow, the one that pushed everything over the edge. Over the years, I'd taken more than my fair share of hits to the head—some documented, many others not, because back then, we were expected to shake it off and keep going. But this time was different. This time, it was like the dam in my mind finally cracked wide open, and everything I had been holding together for years came crashing down.
Life after the accident is a landscape of challenges and adaptations. Every decision is colored by the possibility of a seizure, independence is a distant memory, and the simple act of living requires constant vigilance. The accident drew a line in the sand, separating the carefree days of "before" from the cautious, uncertain days of "after."
I went from one doctor's office to the next, enduring test after test—MRIs, CT scans, neurological exams—each poking and prodding at the mystery behind my seizures. Every appointment left me more exhausted, and the endless cycle of tests felt like they were just confirming what I already feared. I knew, deep down, that seizures often follow traumatic brain injuries (TBI). After years of concussions, it wasn't hard to piece together what was happening to me. But knowing it in the back of your mind and hearing it spoken aloud by a doctor are two different things. When the words finally came, it felt like a punch in the face: "You're likely going to be living with epilepsy for the rest of your life." I had braced for the diagnosis, but nothing could have fully prepared me for the weight of those words.
At first, it didn't seem real. I told myself that I'd recover, that life would return to normal soon enough. But as the weeks turned into months, the seizures became unpredictable, terrifying, and uncontrollable. I had to face the harsh reality. This wasn't something I could shake off. This was my new normal.
Trying to find the proper medication to control my seizures has been like navigating a never-ending maze. I've lost count of how many pills I've taken, each one holding the promise of relief, only to disappoint me time and again. When one finally worked, and I made it through six months seizure-free, I felt hope creeping back in. Life started to feel almost normal again—I could legally get behind the wheel, taste some freedom, and imagine living without constant fear. But then it happened.
A seizure on the highway, my body locking up, and by nothing short of the Grace of God, I survived—and so did everyone else. That terror stays with you, making the brief glimpses of normalcy feel like cruel tricks. Even at home, walking down the stairs can become a nightmare. One moment, I'm upright, and the next, I wake up crumpled at the bottom of thirteen stairs with no memory of the fall. The emotional toll is crushing. Each time I think I've got control back, epilepsy reminds me that it's still there, lurking, waiting to strike again.
Living with epilepsy isn't just about managing the seizures. It's about learning to navigate a world that no longer feels safe. The fear of when the next seizure might strike loomed over everything I did. Simple tasks, like driving, working, or even being alone, became sources of anxiety. My independence felt like it was slipping away from me, and with it, the life I had worked so hard to build. The ripple effects of that one day in September stretched far beyond the physical pain. They affected my relationships, my career, my confidence.
As hard as it is to recover from a seizure—the pain, confusion, and emotional storm that follows—it's my family that suffers even more. For me, the seizure comes and goes in a blur, but for them, it's a front-row seat to my helplessness. They watch, powerless to stop it, as my body convulses, and my consciousness slips away. The fear and uncertainty in their eyes, the panic that grips them as they wait for the storm to pass—it's a kind of suffering I can't even begin to imagine.
I know they feel helpless, unable to do anything but stand by, and that helplessness is a pain I wouldn't wish on anyone. They carry the weight of watching me go through it all, never knowing when the subsequent seizure will strike. While I may eventually wake up and face my recovery, they live with the constant fear, the anxiety, and the unspoken question: Will this happen again? And that's a burden far heavier than any seizure I endure.
To this day, even though my kids are now 24, 22, and 20, I refuse to let them witness a seizure. If they're around, I immediately send them out of the room. My doctors, wife, family, and close friends all get frustrated with me for this, but it's one boundary I won't budge on. I know my kids understand what epilepsy means, but having them see me break, even just for a few minutes, is something I can't handle. I'm not strong enough to bear that.
I don't want them to see me in that vulnerable state, to watch their father lose control. Thankfully, I raised them to be strong enough to respect that boundary, even though I know, in my heart, that being in the other room, hearing but not seeing, is likely one of the hardest things they've ever had to endure. And yet, they endure it. They do it for me, even when it tears at them. I can only hope that, in some way, their strength in respecting my wishes will help them cope with the fear I know they must feel.
It's hard to put into words just how much my wife has endured throughout this ordeal. Only last week, I suffered my first seizure in months while she was at work, and the thought of what she must have felt—knowing she couldn't be there—breaks my heart. The anxiety and fear she must carry every day are gut-wrenching. Yet, through it all, she's been my rock. Every time I go into what we jokingly call the "funky chicken" (don't get mad, it's just my twisted way of holding onto some sense of humor), she's right there, shouldering it all. The weight of seeing me in that state would be unbearable for most, but she bears it with strength I don't know if I could have without her. I honestly don't think I'd still be here today without her unwavering support and love guiding me through the worst moments.
Words can't describe what it feels like to wake up every day knowing that your body can betray you without warning. Epilepsy, in many ways, is an invisible condition, but its impact is anything but invisible. There are days when the fear, frustration, and exhaustion weigh so heavily that it feels impossible to keep going. But there are also quiet, hard-won moments where I've found strength I never knew I had.
I've learned to live with uncertainty and plan for unpredictability. I've had to rely on the people around me in ways I wasn't accustomed to before. And slowly, I've come to terms with the fact that while I can't control the epilepsy, I can control how I live with it. I'm still here. I'm still fighting. The life I had before September 14th, 2014, may be gone, but there's a new life—different, yes, but still worth living—that I'm learning to embrace.
Ten years later, I'm staring at another six months of not driving and the looming possibility of never driving again. I have to focus on what I have. That day changed everything, but it didn't take away everything. It's taken a decade to make peace with that. Yes, there are days when I don't feel that way, and I know there will be plenty of them. But I also know now that survival is more than just making it through. It's about finding new ways to thrive, even when the world feels completely upside down.
