Most mornings, I wake up already exhausted. Not because I’ve had a long night, but because I carry a weight before the day even begins. It’s the silent fear that today might be the day ; the day my body gives in without warning, the day my condition chooses to remind me who’s in charge.

I live with epilepsy, and I also work a full-time job in Lagos, the city that never slows down. The one where the traffic is loud, the lights are blinding, and the stress is an uninvited coworker.

I take my medication before sunrise, hoping it will carry me safely through the day. I board a danfo, sit by the window, and keep my eyes low to avoid the flashes of light that sometimes trigger me. Even when nothing is wrong, I find myself constantly scanning: Do I feel okay? Is my body doing that thing again?

By the time I walk into the office, I’ve already fought a battle no one else can see.

I work hard. I meet deadlines. I smile. I’m praised for being calm under pressure. But no one at work knows I live with epilepsy. And most days, I’m terrified they’ll find out. Not because I’m ashamed but because I don’t trust that they’ll understand.

Once, I had a minor episode in the bathroom. Just an aura , no full seizure  but I felt like the floor would disappear beneath me. I sat there quietly, breathing through the tremors, praying it wouldn’t get worse. When I finally returned to my desk, I lied. Said I had a stomach bug. Everyone laughed it off. I laughed too. But inside, I was drowning in silence.

This is the part no one talks about.

It’s not just the seizures. It’s the constant fear of when the next one will hit. It’s the anxiety before every meeting. The “overthinking” when I feel a little too tired. The shame of wondering if I’ll ever be promoted or taken seriously if I tell the truth.

Lagos life is hard enough. Now imagine living it on alert 24/7, managing triggers, hiding pills in your bag, skipping out on after-work hangouts because you need to lie down in silence. Imagine worrying that a single episode could cost you your job, or worse, make you “the office whisper”.

And yet, somehow, I still show up.

I show up because I love what I do. Because I want to grow. Because epilepsy may be a part of my story, but it’s not the whole story. I’ve learned to listen to my body. To rest when I need to. To build routines that protect my peace. And slowly, I’m learning to let go of shame.

But I also know I shouldn’t have to do this alone.

There are thousands of us. Young Nigerians with chronic illnesses who are working, grinding, pushing past invisible battles just to stay afloat. We deserve safer workspaces. We deserve compassion without pity. We deserve to be able to say, “I have epilepsy,” and not fear that it means the end of our careers.

If you’re living with epilepsy and holding down a 9–5, I want you to know that you are incredibly brave. You are doing more than just surviving , you are resisting invisibility. You are teaching the world, quietly, what strength looks like.

And if you’re an employer, colleague, or HR professional reading this understand that inclusion goes beyond policies. It’s in how you listen. It’s in how you support. It’s in how you create room for people to be human, not just productive.

💜 The Heart of It All: The Moral

Living with epilepsy doesn’t make you less capable, it just means your strength often goes unseen.

Every step you take toward your desk is a victory.

Every time you show up even on the hard days, you’re challenging stigma with grace.

We may not always have the loudest voices, but our presence is a kind of power.

So here’s to showing up.

Here’s to surviving, striving, and still being soft in a city that demands toughness.

Here’s to the quiet warriors.

You are not alone. And you are not your condition.

You are enough even on the days you sit quietly in the bathroom, holding your breath, and trying to be brave.