I was 31 when they finally worked out what was wrong with me. Five days in hospital, two departments arguing over who I belonged to, and I was convinced it was my heart. It was my brain. Epilepsy. Around the same time, my thyroid decided to join the party with Graves’ disease, because apparently one wasn’t enough. This was right when the wellness industry hit Australia hard. I had three little kids, not much money, and a lifelong love of anything spiritual, so I fell straight down the rabbit hole. Eat clean, think positive, raise your vibration. And underneath all of it, a quiet message I swallowed whole: if you’re sick, you did this. Somewhere in you is a wrong thought or a wrong food, and if you just find it, you’ll be well. So I tried. Oh, I tried. I already ate well. My Spanish mum had cooked us a proper dinner every night of my life. I meditated. I believed. And I still had seizures. The worst was at a spiritual workshop. I had several seizures, and a visiting teacher made me feel like I was doing it for attention. Like I’d failed at the spiritual game. I remember sitting there, shaky and foggy, feeling ashamed of my own brain. It took me years to say this out loud: I didn’t cause it. How could I? Positive thinking helps me. Good food helps me. Love helps me most of all. But the human body is a living, breathing thing, and sometimes it breaks, no matter how good your vibes are. Even now I can do everything right, take my meds, sleep, eat well, walk every day, and my brain will still do what it does. It’s called being human. If you’re living in a body that won’t behave, hear me: you did not cause this, and you can’t think your way out of it. The bravest thing you’ll ever do is get up and live anyway, sick and imperfect and still worthy of every bit of love you’ve got. 🤍kr

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