The fatigue that comes with epilepsy is not ordinary tiredness. It is deep, consuming, and layered; a kind of exhaustion that wears the body, mind, and soul.

Every seizure, even the smallest one — a flicker, a tremor, a blank space in time — burns through the brain’s energy reserves like wildfire. It’s like running a marathon no one sees. Afterward, the person may feel dazed, foggy, or hollowed out. It’s not just physical — it’s cognitive. Words get tangled. Thoughts move slowly. Memory becomes slippery.

And this doesn’t just happen after a seizure. Even on “good” days, the brain is on guard, like a soldier scanning the horizon for the next attack. That constant, silent vigilance takes a toll. Just the effort to stay normal, to focus, to socialize, to hold a job, is mentally draining.

The body, too, begins to carry the weight.
Fatigue can settle in the bones. Legs feel like they’ve walked miles before noon. Arms ache just lifting a cup of tea. Sleep may be long, but it’s rarely restful — haunted by the possibility of seizures, disrupted by the fear of not waking up safely.

And the medication — while lifesaving — often brings its own kind of sedation. Side effects like drowsiness, dizziness, and mental cloudiness can make a person feel like they’re moving through wet cement. There’s a heaviness, a slowness, a drag.

Emotionally, it’s relentless.
There is grief in fatigue — grief for the energy that used to be, for the confidence to go out without wondering, What if I seize? There is sadness in the unpredictability. Even joy must be rationed. Even rest must be planned.

The fatigue of epilepsy is invisible, often misunderstood, and rarely respected. Others may say, “But you look fine.” They don’t see the crashing waves under the calm surface.

And yet—she carries it.
She moves through the day with this invisible weight on her back, adjusting, adapting, and surviving. She cancels plans when needed. She naps not out of laziness, but necessity. She smiles while her body begs for stillness. And when she lies down at the end of the day, it’s not just to rest — it’s to recover from the battle she quietly fought just by making it through.

Epileptic fatigue is not weakness.
It is evidence of strength, of resilience,
Of a nervous system that fights fires
And a spirit that refuses to give in.

Each night, a prayer.
And every tomorrow, a chance she bravely takes again.