'They told me it was just a panic attack. A few months later, I woke up in the ICU.'

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I wish this were rare. If you've ever felt dismissed when something was clearly wrong, this story may feel familiar.

I was 16 when I had my first seizure.

One day, I was a healthy, active teenager on the Victorian Athletics Team. The next, I was on the floor — unable to move, speak, or even breathe properly.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body beyond my control. Just when I thought it was over, it wasn't.

Because the scariest part wasn't that it was my first seizure. It was what happened after.

When the paramedics arrived, I was disorientated, confused and exhausted, both mentally and physically. My dad was trying to help me stand, but I kept collapsing.

But instead of concern, I got this:

"It's a panic attack," the paramedic told my dad.

"Probably too much caffeine."

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Then, turning to me — "Come on, get up."

There was no understanding. No belief or consideration that anything serious was going on.

I felt a wave of shame crash over me. Was I overreacting? Was I imagining it? Was it all in my head?

That moment haunted me. As the seizures continued, I kept questioning myself, wondering if they were right.

And look, maybe it was just the paramedics' attempt to keep the situation calm, but it didn't feel like that was the intention.

But here's the thing no one talks about enough: epilepsy doesn't always look the way people think it does. Most of us carry a limited, TV-drama version of what epilepsy "should" look like, until they've seen a seizure up close.

In truth, epilepsy is invisible, until it's not.

There are actually many types. Mine, that first time, were tonic-clonic seizures — the kind where your body stiffens and jerks uncontrollably, your breathing can become shallow, and you lose control of your own body. But at the hospital, my MRI and bloodwork were clear, so I was sent home, doubting myself, and without answers or validation.

Luckily, my dad kept pushing. He knew something wasn't right.

Eventually, I was referred to a neurologist. For the first time, someone actually listened. He believed me. He explained that yes, it was likely a seizure — but a single one doesn't always mean epilepsy. And most of the time, it won't show up on scans unless you catch it on an EEG while it's happening. Not exactly easy.

So I went back to life, hoping it was a one-off. But it wasn't.

A few months later, it happened again. Only this time, it didn't stop.

It started with something that felt... off. A strange feeling in my stomach. My arm went numb. I couldn't speak. I was having what I now know was an aura — a type of focal seizure. Sensing that something was wrong, my dog curled up beside me as I slipped in and out of seizures. Eventually, I collapsed again. This time, I woke up in the ICU.

I was told that I'd been seizing on and off for hours, and that the doctors had considered putting me in a medically induced coma if they couldn't stop it. That's how serious it was.

That's when I finally got the diagnosis: generalised epilepsy, a neurological condition where seizures affect both sides of the brain.

It wasn't caffeine.

It wasn't anxiety.

It wasn't in my head.

And it wasn't my fault.

And finally, someone said it out loud.

Listen to this episode of Well.

Since then, I've learned how common it is for women, especially young women, to have their genuine medical concerns dismissed or misdiagnosed as "just stress", "hormones", or "anxiety".

Dismissal lingers. It can make you second-guess your body long afterward.

This isn't just a personal story. It's evidence of a pattern — a wider, systemic issue of not being believed, especially for women.

We need to replace assumptions with listening. Change begins with belief.

Because epilepsy — and other invisible disorders — aren't always easy to spot. But that doesn't make them any less real.

For me, epilepsy means more than just seizures. It's memory issues. Fatigue. Anxiety. Constant worry. It's feeling isolated. It's learning how to live with something that people often don't understand.

However, it has also taught me to listen to my body. To advocate for myself. To push back when I'm not being heard.

And, perhaps most importantly, it has taught me that I'm not alone.

So if you've ever been told that "it's just in your head," let me say this to you now:

Keep asking questions. Keep trusting your body. Keep speaking up.

Because your symptoms are real. Your experience matters. And you deserve care, not doubt.

Let's change the way we respond — especially to young women.

Let's stop whispering about epilepsy. Let's talk about it.

Let's make invisible disorders and chronic health conditions visible.

Because being dismissed isn't just frustrating — it's dangerous. Today, my epilepsy is well managed, and I share my story to raise awareness and offer support to anyone who's ever felt unheard or dismissed. Your voice matters, your experience is real, and you're not alone.

And no one should have to end up in the hospital just to be believed.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

Feature Image: Getty.