epilepsy dad

  • Learning What’s Enough

    Learning What’s Enough

    Enough used to feel like settling.

    Like lowering the bar. Like admitting I couldn’t handle more. Enough was what you accepted when the bigger version of your life didn’t work out the way you planned.

    After a year of loss, and at the beginning of a year of transition, that definition doesn’t hold anymore.

    Now, enough feels different.

    Enough doesn’t mean the days are easy. Most days, I still end them depleted. I give what I have, and there usually isn’t much left afterward. But the exhaustion feels proportionate now. It matches the effort. I end the day tired, not defeated.

    Before, I was always behind. No matter how much I did, it never felt like enough. There was always another emotional demand waiting, another situation to manage, another moment where I had to stay alert. I was never really off. Even rest required vigilance.

    Now, the days still ask for everything I have. But when they end, I can tell myself the truth: I showed up. I did what needed to be done. I’m not carrying the constant sense that I failed simply because I ran out of capacity.

    Enough isn’t having energy left over.

    Enough is being able to stop without guilt.

    It’s not about having fewer responsibilities. It’s about having responsibilities with edges. They’re clearer now. Narrower. More specific. Showing up for my son. Being present for my goddaughter. Keeping the day moving forward without asking it to carry more than it can.

    Enough isn’t ambitious. It isn’t impressive. It doesn’t photograph well.

    Enough is when the weight of the day matches the strength I have available to carry it.

    That balance used to feel like compromise. Now it feels like alignment.

    I still want things. I still imagine futures that look different from this one. But I’m no longer measuring the present against a version of life that no longer exists. I’m measuring it against reality.

    Enough doesn’t mean I’m done growing. It means I’m done chasing the wrong scale.

    Some days, enough is patience.

    Some days, it’s endurance.

    Some days, it’s simply making it through without feeling like I failed.

    Enough will change. It has to.

    But learning what enough feels like has given me something I didn’t have before: a way to recognize when a day actually fits.

    And for now, that’s enough.

  • Finding My Footing

    Finding My Footing

    I didn’t notice the ground at first.

    There was no moment where things clicked into place. No deep breath followed by relief. No sense that I had made it through something. If anything, it was the opposite. The days just stopped surprising me in quite the same way.

    That’s how footing arrived.

    After a year where everything felt unstable, predictability began to creep back in. Not because life got easier, but because fewer things changed from one day to the next. The shape of my days started to repeat. Mornings followed a familiar pattern. Appointments landed where I expected them to. Fewer decisions felt urgent. Fewer moments demanded that I brace for impact.

    It didn’t feel like progress. It felt quiet.

    I noticed it first in my body. My shoulders weren’t as tight. I wasn’t flinching every time my phone buzzed. I slept a little more, not well, but better than before. My body figured it out before my mind did. Something had shifted. The ground wasn’t solid, but it wasn’t moving under my feet every time I stepped.

    That’s when I realized I was finding my footing.

    Not everywhere. Not all at once. Just in enough places that I wasn’t constantly correcting myself mid-step.

    A lot of that steadiness came from the things that didn’t move.

    My son’s needs didn’t pause while everything else changed. Neither did my goddaughter’s. School still started at the same time. Appointments still had to be made and kept. Medications still needed to be managed. Meals still needed to happen. Dogs still needed to be walked.

    There was no room to wait for clarity.

    Parenting didn’t provide answers, but it provided structure. It gave the day edges. It gave me somewhere to put my weight. Showing up wasn’t heroic or meaningful in the way people sometimes describe. It was necessary. It was grounding.

    Some things didn’t shift. I built around them.

    That responsibility didn’t make life lighter, but it made it steadier. It pulled me out of my head and back into the day in front of me. It narrowed my focus in a way that helped. When everything else felt provisional, the kids anchored the present.

    Finding my footing didn’t mean feeling safe. It didn’t mean feeling confident. It didn’t mean believing the worst was over.

    It meant knowing where I could stand.

    There are still plenty of places where the ground feels uneven. There are still unknowns that sit just outside the frame of my days. There are still moments where I feel the urge to brace, to anticipate, to prepare for something I can’t name yet.

    But I’m not slipping the way I was before.

    I’m not steady everywhere. But I know where the ground holds.

    For now, that’s enough.

  • The Transition Year

    The Transition Year

    It’s the start of another new year.

    This one doesn’t feel like it’s asking for resolutions—the kind that usually get abandoned before the month is out. It’s not about exercising more, losing weight, eating better, or drinking more water. It’s not about learning French, or guitar, or drawing, or how to cook something impressive.

    This year isn’t about optimization.

    There will be fundamental differences this year. Not because I’ve planned them carefully, but because change is already in motion. Last year was when many things fell apart. As a result, I’ll start this year one way, and by the end of it, some of the most basic facts of my life will be different.

    2025 was loss.

    2026 is transition.

    Transition is uncomfortable. It’s unstable. It’s the in-between where nothing is settled yet, but nothing can go back to the way it was. There’s no clean narrative arc. No before-and-after clarity. Just movement. Unstoppable movement.

    It’s not rebuilding yet.

    It’s not new beginnings.

    It’s packing things up without knowing exactly where they’re going.

    There’s grief in that. And uncertainty. And more questions than answers.

    But there’s also something honest about it.

    This year isn’t asking me to reinvent myself. It’s asking me to pay attention. To stay upright while things shift. To keep showing up for my son, for my goddaughter, for the responsibilities that didn’t disappear just because everything else changed.

    If 2025 was the year everything fell apart, then 2026 is the year I learn how to move through what’s left.

    Maybe 2027 will be the year of something new.

    I don’t need to decide that yet.

  • The Lost Year

    The Lost Year

    This has been an extremely difficult year.

    Not difficult in a single, dramatic way.

    Difficult in the slow accumulation of loss.

    The kind that doesn’t arrive all at once, but keeps showing up until you realize you’re standing in a year that no longer resembles the one you started in.

    My father passed away this fall.

    It was slow, and then it was fast. Months of watching a body fail, followed by an ending that still came as a shock. His world had grown smaller. His body no longer cooperated. His mind, at times, betrayed him. He was unhappy in ways that couldn’t be fixed.

    His death brought grief. And guilt. And the familiar questions that arrive uninvited:

    Should I have spent more time? Should I have been more patient? Should I have done something differently?

    It also brought relief. And that’s harder to admit out loud. Relief that he wasn’t trapped in a body that no longer worked. Relief that the suffering had ended. Relief that the waiting was over.

    I am grateful that we moved him closer. Grateful that my son got to know him. That he saw my son play baseball. That he showed interest in my son’s life, even as his own was narrowing. Those moments matter. They don’t cancel the loss, but they soften its edges.

    Work added its own quiet weight this year.

    For much of the year, I was in a role that wasn’t a good fit. The frustration built slowly, then all at once. Fear kept me there longer than I should have stayed. Responsibility did too. The job search dragged on, heavy with uncertainty. I eventually landed somewhere new, which brought some relief—but even that has continued to shift. The year ends without the sense of stability I hoped for.

    My son still hasn’t seen the benefits we were hoping for from DBS. In fact, he’s having more seizures now than he was at the beginning of the year. When you’ve lived with uncertainty for this long, you’d think it would lose its power. It doesn’t. Each setback still lands hard.

    My goddaughter’s health has changed as well, requiring more care, more attention, more presence. The needs don’t slow down just because you’re already stretched thin.

    There have been other changes this year, too. Big ones. The kind that rearrange the shape of your life without asking permission. The kind that leave you trying to find your footing in a version of the future you didn’t expect to be standing in.

    This year can’t end soon enough.

    It feels like a year of subtraction. A year where things were taken faster than they could be replaced. A year where even gratitude felt heavy, like another thing I was supposed to hold carefully and do “right.”

    And still, some things remain.

    My son.

    My goddaughter.

    My dogs.

    My health.

    A few friends.

    A job. Insurance. Shelter.

    I don’t list these things to balance the scales. They don’t erase what was lost. They just exist alongside it.

    I’ll carry them into the new year. I’ll keep showing up for the kids. I’ll keep working toward better outcomes where I can, and accepting limits where I can’t. I’ll keep looking for steadier ground.

    This year feels like the floor.

    Not the ceiling.

    Next year isn’t about rebuilding what was lost. Some things can’t be rebuilt. Some things shouldn’t be.

    Next year is about making something new.

  • Another Milestone He Cannot Reach

    Another Milestone He Cannot Reach

    We sat in the exam room, waiting for the doctor.

    It was his regular follow-up with his neurologist. She has managed his care for almost ten years. She has been with him through keto, multiple surgeries, and the rollercoaster of physical and emotional effects that his condition has had on my son.

    This appointment, in particular, was one I had been dreading ever since my son brought up the topic of driving with his therapist. She suggested that he ask his neurologist about it at his next appointment.

    This was that appointment.

    There was a significant buildup between his first mention of driving and this appointment. I know it was on his mind, so it was on my mind, too. It wasn’t the anticipation of the question or the uncertainty of what the answer might be. The mounting pressure came from the finality of that answer when it was given.

    The pressure built up slowly as the days went on. But the morning of the appointment, it spiked. Asking that question was the only thing on my son’s mind. He brought it up when we left the house. He brought it up when we got to the hospital. He brought it up to me when our appointment started, even before the pleasantries were done. I motioned for him to wait.

    After his exam, his doctor asked if he had any questions.

    I looked at my son and nodded, indicating it was time for his question.

    He looked at the doctor and asked the seven-word phrase that he had been holding onto for weeks.

    “Will I ever be able to drive?”

    The pressure that had built up finally exploded, pushing the air out of the room.

    I looked from my son to the doctor as she formulated her answer. I saw her shoulders lower as she took a breath. Careful, concerned, and compassionate. But also direct.

    “Probably not,” she said. “No.”

    I looked back at my son. I couldn’t judge his reaction. He sat there, taking a punch to the gut and not even flinching. He knew what the answer was going to be. And then he heard it. And then… nothing.

    I knew what the answer was too, and it’s not like I was hoping for a different answer. I just hoped it wouldn’t hurt. I hoped it wouldn’t matter.

    I finally took a breath. I wanted to just hold him. I wanted to find a positive spin. I wanted to not think about how his condition has taken so many things from him.

    My heart was on the floor. I was gutted.

    “I will always tell you the truth,” his doctor added.

    The appointment ended soon after, but the weight of that moment stayed with me. I could see him turning it over quietly, the way he processes most big things. A few days later, I checked in with him to see how he was feeling.

    “I’m ok,” he offered.

    That is usually his first response to questions about his feelings. I gently pressed, trying not to project what I thought he must be feeling after hearing from his doctor.

    We landed on disappointed and resigned. Having the answer helped quell the uncertainty, even if the answer wasn’t what he wanted.

    Moments like this remind me of something I live with every day: he faces losses most teenagers never even consider. They arrive quietly, in small conversations and clinical truths, and I know they won’t be the last. There will be more moments like this in his future, more things he has to let go of. But we will keep living our lives around what he can do, not just what he can’t.

    And no matter what lies ahead, I’ll be right beside him.

New posts on Tuesdays.
Follow along.

About

I’m Dave. I write about raising a son with refractory epilepsy.
Read more.

Recent Posts