Still Here, Still Me

If I had to describe my journey in one word, it would be resilience, because no matter what life has thrown at me, I’ve found a way to keep standing.

I was born perfectly healthy. My parents had no idea that a single afternoon would change everything. When I was three years old, I was at my grandmother’s house. Her friend got so excited after my grandaunt served him food that he picked me up playfully and tossed me into the air without realizing there was a ceiling fan spinning right above. He didn’t mean to hurt me; he was just overjoyed. But that moment changed my life forever.

The fan blades struck my head, shattering my skull. I was rushed to the hospital, where I needed two major brain surgeries to survive. The doctors weren’t sure I’d make it, but somehow, I did. I was awake through parts of the ordeal , I still remember flashes of light, fear, and the sound of people crying around me. That’s how my journey with a brain injury began.

The accident left me with nerve damage and partial paralysis on the left side of my body. Overnight, I went from being an active toddler to a child who couldn’t move or play like other kids. My parents were grateful I survived, but survival came with a lifetime of challenges.

Growing up, I was often teased at school for walking differently or struggling to use my hand. Kids didn’t understand, and their laughter cut deep. I tried to act strong, but inside, I felt invisible and different. It took me years to understand that my worth wasn’t tied to how I moved or looked.

For two decades, I thought I had left the worst behind until the seizures began, 20 years after the accident. They came without warning, reshaping my life all over again. Suddenly, I was battling both physical limitations and unpredictable seizures. The medications helped, but they brought heavy side effects, from fatigue to depression. Some days, it felt like I was living in a fog.

Relationships became complicated too. I remember times I told boyfriends about my seizures, only for them to slowly disappear from my life. They didn’t know how to handle it, and that rejection left a scar that wasn’t physical. It made me question if I could ever be truly accepted.

There are also parts of my early life that I can’t fully remember. I was born without complications, but because the accident happened so young, I have no memory of what it felt like to move freely. It’s as if that version of me never existed.

Still, I’ve kept moving forward. I studied, worked, and learned to adapt. I once worked with a team-building company where we talked with young people about self-awareness and growth. I supported friends struggling with depression, reminding them that it’s okay to not be okay. Encouraging others has always been a quiet way of healing myself.

Recently, I started sharing my story publicly on social media. For years, I kept silent about my disability and seizures. I hid my scars. But I realized that silence was isolating, and maybe, my voice could help someone else feel seen. The response has been beautiful people message me to say they finally feel less alone. That’s when I knew my pain had purpose.

There are so many misconceptions about people living with brain injuries. People often assume we’re fragile or incapable, but they don’t see the daily strength it takes to live, to smile, and to hope. They don’t see how much courage it takes to face the world when your body and mind sometimes betray you.

If I could speak to someone newly injured, I’d tell them: You are not your injury. You are still enough, still capable, and still deserving of love. Healing takes time. There will be good days and dark days both are part of the process. Take your time, and don’t let anyone rush your recovery or define your worth.

My life’s path changed completely because of that moment at my grandaunt’s house, but it also gave me purpose. I’m now working toward creating an NGO to support children with brain injuries and seizures a safe space for them to feel seen and supported early. I want them to know what took me years to realize: that their scars are not their story, their strength is.

When I look back, I see a little girl who wasn’t supposed to survive, a teenager who endured teasing, and a woman who faced rejection but still found courage to speak. My life has been a series of hard lessons, but also miracles.

I didn’t choose this path, but I’m choosing to make something out of it. I’m choosing to tell my story. To encourage others. To keep showing up. Because even when life changed everything I’m still here. Still fighting. Still me.