Blake Wuensche, junior, doesn’t always remember her seizures. They arrive without warning, cutting through her life like a sudden blackout. One second everything is fine; the next, the lights go out.

The first time it happened, she was getting ready for school—a normal morning with nothing out of the ordinary. Then, in an instant, there was nothing: a blank space where a memory should have been.

“I don’t remember much of it,” Blake said. “I just remember waking up, and my mom told me I had a seizure.”

At first, it seemed like a fluke—maybe she was just overtired or stressed out. But then it happened again. And again. Only later did she realize the signs had been there all along.

“I had symptoms before,” said Blake. “I just didn’t know they were seizures.”

Small things — staring spells, sudden jerks — that once seemed harmless now meant something entirely different. And the worst part was the uncertainty: no one had any answers.

The first doctor she saw discussed epilepsy but wasn’t certified to diagnose her. “ The word “epilepsy” hung over her, heavy and uncertain, with no concrete answers—just the fear of the unknown.

“It was scary,” Blake said. “I didn’t know what this meant for my life. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to drive. I didn’t know how often it would happen.”

Eventually, a real diagnosis came, and with it, a strange kind of relief.

“I was confused at first,” said Blake. “But once I was actually diagnosed, it made me feel a little better. At least I knew what was happening.”

Yet, knowing didn’t change the reality of living with the condition.

A seizure isn’t just a single moment of lost consciousness—it’s an unraveling.

“When I wake up, I don’t know what’s going on,” Blake said. “It takes a while to understand where I am and what happened.”

Then there’s the memory loss.

“I’ll lose memory for a while,” she says. “Days, weeks—sometimes even up to a month.”

Imagine waking up and finding entire chunks of your life missing, with friends recounting events and conversations that, to you, never happened. It’s disorienting, a feeling of slipping in and out of your own existence.

On a church mission trip in Belize, a particularly terrifying incident underscored the gravity of her condition. While in the shower on their first night, Blake had a grand mal seizure.

“It was terrifying for myself and the other girls we were in a cabin with,” Alexa Hamilton, Blake’s friend and fellow junior, said.

Their friend Kynsley sprang into action, trying to pick the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. Time felt elastic—stretching too thin, slipping too fast. Someone else sprinted for Blake’s emergency medication while another ran for a nurse in the next cabin over.

“I went and grabbed Blake’s emergency medication while she was being tended to by our leader in the cabin,” Hamilton said. “The other girls were running to get the leader in the next cabin over who is a nurse.”

A rush of movement, voices rising in panic, and in the center of it all, Blake — caught in something beyond her control.

Living with epilepsy means constant calculations.

“I can’t drink caffeine,” Blake said. “I have to make sure I get enough sleep. I have to manage my stress carefully.”

Everything becomes a careful balance—how much sleep is enough, how much stress is too much, and what might trigger the next seizure. At concerts, church events, or even at the movies, her friends instinctively glance over at her, not to hover, but simply to ensure she’s okay.

“I find myself glancing over to check in on her since flashing light sequences are a trigger of hers,” Hamilton said.

They are attuned to the details most people would overlook. It’s a quiet kind of vigilance, a shared awareness that doesn’t need words.

“We have all learned seizure protocol and how to operate her emergency medication,” Hamilton said. “And I am always sure to know where her medication is at all times when we’re together.”

It’s a responsibility they don’t take lightly.

The biggest restriction, however, is the loss of freedom, especially when it comes to driving.

“I want to be able to drive,” said Blake.

Every seizure resets the clock—three months before she can even consider getting behind the wheel again. Even when she’s cleared to drive, that sense of safety remains elusive.

“Even when I can drive, I don’t always feel confident,” she said.

Because what if it happens again? What if she’s on the road? What if she loses control at the worst possible moment?

It isn’t just about getting from point A to point B—it’s about independence, the ability to go out without meticulously planning every step.

“I can’t just leave whenever I want,” Blake said. “I have to think about everything ahead of time. It makes life a lot more complicated.”

Despite its severity, many still misunderstand epilepsy.

“The biggest thing people get wrong is flashing lights,” Blake said. “People think epilepsy is just that—seizures from flashing lights. But it’s actually really rare.”

Hollywood has created a myth of epilepsy—a strobe light flickers, and suddenly, someone collapses. But for most, the reality is far different.

“A lot of seizures aren’t like that,” she said. “There are different kinds.”

Some of Blake’s seizures happen so subtly that they go unnoticed by teachers and classmates.

“Absence seizures are real seizures,” she said. “But people just think you’re spacing out.”

And then there’s the reaction from others.

“Sometimes, if I stutter or stare off for a second, people will ask if I’m having a seizure,” she said.

Though her friends know these questions come from concern rather than malice, it can still be frustrating.

“I don’t want people to treat me like I’m fragile,” Blake said. “I just want them to know what epilepsy actually is.”

Her friends echo that sentiment. They work to educate others by example, demonstrating that Blake is not defined by her condition.

“She doesn’t let it discourage her from trying new things,” Hamilton said. “And she isn’t afraid of expressing needs related to her wellness.”

They remind people that epilepsy is just one aspect of who she is.

Blake’s life isn’t defined solely by her seizures—it’s also about everything that happens in between. The uncertainty of not knowing when the next episode will strike, the quiet moments of vulnerability, and the daily adjustments that everyone makes without notice.

“I think I’ve become more understanding,” Blake said. “You never really know what someone else is going through.”

Her experience has reshaped the way her friends view not just epilepsy, but life itself. They’ve learned that caring for someone means being present, being prepared, and sometimes, simply listening. Their shared experiences, from frantic moments during a seizure to the everyday support that follows, create a bond that goes beyond any diagnosis.

“Don’t shy away from your friend with epilepsy,” Hamilton said. “They are able to advocate for themselves and express their needs. Yes, it can be scary at times… but it’s completely worth it to love your friend the way they deserve.”

Living with epilepsy means navigating a world that rarely waits. It means accepting that sometimes, you have to plan more carefully and hope that every day brings fewer surprises than the last. And while the unpredictability remains a constant challenge, Blake and her friends continue to move forward—together, with quiet determination.