There’s a quiet wish I don’t always say out loud.
I wish I could be normal.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the everyday sense. To not have to think about my brain. To not measure my energy, my focus, my limits. To not carry medical words in my head alongside teenage ones.
The truth is, there will never be anything “normal” about having a brain disease. It doesn’t fit neatly into life. It doesn’t pause when things feel inconvenient. It doesn’t disappear just because you want to blend in.
And for a long time, that felt unfair.
Normal felt like freedom. Like ease. Like not having to explain yourself or your absences or your fears. Normal felt like something everyone else got without asking.
But over time, I’ve started to realise something important.
Normal isn’t the same as whole.
Living with a brain disease has forced me to know myself in ways many people won’t for years. I listen to my body. I notice changes. I value good days deeply. I don’t take clarity, movement, or connection for granted.
I feel things more intentionally. I appreciate moments more fully. I understand vulnerability from the inside, not as an idea, but as a lived experience.
There is strength in that.
I may never have a “normal” relationship with my body or my future. But I have something else. Perspective. Empathy. Depth. A kind of resilience that isn’t loud, but steady.
I don’t wish away who I am anymore.
I still have moments where I want life to be simpler, lighter, easier. But I also know that this experience has shaped me into someone who sees the world with care, patience, and understanding.
Maybe normal was never the goal.
Maybe living fully, honestly, and with compassion for myself is enough.
