A year ago, something familiar and terrifying happened: I had another Bell’s palsy episode.
It’s rare to get, but I’m no stranger to it. I had it three times as a kid, the last time when I was 14—over 14 years ago now. Back then, it was scary in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t understand what was happening, just that my face wasn’t working and people looked at me differently. As a child, fear and confusion were my companions. As an adult, it was a mix of annoyance, pain, and a different kind of fear—the kind that comes with knowing too much and still having no control.
You’d think half your face going numb wouldn’t hurt. But it did. The paralysis lasted about a week and a half, which is considered lucky, I guess. But it was still long, still painful, and still isolating. The nerve pain, the headaches, the way my smile disappeared—it all left a mark.
And then there’s the disbelief. Some people in my family—Emily, for one—thought I was faking it. I wish I were that good of an actor. I wish it had been pretend. But it wasn’t. Just like when I was little, no one knows why it happened. No clear cause. No warning. Just a sudden shift in my body that I couldn’t stop.
It might happen again. I might never know why. And because of it, I live with lingering nerve pain and headaches that remind me of what my body’s been through.
But I’m still here. Still healing. Still learning how to carry the invisible weight of something that changed me—again.
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