All I remember that day was applying the last touches to my makeup and participating in my usual pre-competition superstitions, but soon after, my vision went black.
I opened my eyes, finding myself on the floor with cheer moms fanning me off as they wiped dirt off my body. At just 17 years old, on May 10, 2025, I experienced one of the scariest moments of my life.
From the crying I heard in the background and the mom’s telling me I would be okay, I quickly realized that something didn’t feel right.
One of the moms told me I had passed out and started convulsing during a conversation. This had confused me since I had never experienced anything like that before.
I couldn’t help but laugh, learning that sometimes, in moments of fear and confusion, laughter is the only thing you can do. Suddenly, I felt as though I had failed my teammates, and my body was failing alongside them. The control I once had was slipping away.
The paramedics approached me outside the arena, checking my blood sugar and heart rate, reassuring me that I was stable but needed to take it easy.
My coaches, with tears in their eyes, sat me down and told me I didn’t have to compete in my last competition of the season. I was devastated, but I had worked so hard that I wasn’t going to let this stop me.
During the routine, I felt my body giving out, but the uplifting words around me pushed me through.
I heard at every corner, “We love you, Vicky,” and “Keep pushing, we’re almost finished.”
Those words made me feel unstoppable and that I was surrounded by so much love.
The next morning, after the competition, I visited my local pediatrician, who referred me to Nicklaus Children’s Hospital, where I underwent an Electroencephalography (EEG) test.
On July 3, 2025, I was diagnosed with “Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy,” and began having random panic attacks, anxiety, and sleeping much more.
Around this time, I was staying up extremely late to study for AICE exams, taking a short nap, attending school to take my exam, and repeating the process.
The cycle was nonstop for nine days, with only three to four hours of sleep included. My body was starting to give out; I was just drained and exhausted, and it began to show.
Starting my senior year with this diagnosis was overwhelming. I now had to manage medication twice a day at the same time, a seizure action plan at school, and emergency medication.
I’d find myself worrying, as missing a dose, sleep deprivation, or even hyperventilating could trigger another episode.
As a student-athlete on two cheer teams, also tackling rigorous courses, the fear of triggering a seizure held me back. I avoided pushing myself in cheer, sacrificed summer work, and even avoided extra SAT practice to prioritize sleep.
But after heartfelt talks with my teachers, friends, family, and coaches, I realized I wasn’t alone. I had a community that always looked out for me.
Slowly, I realized that with their support, I learned to schedule wisely, listen to my body, and take a step back when needed. Most importantly, I’ve learned not to hold back from the things that make me who I am.
I’m still learning about my diagnosis every day, but I want my story to inspire others with life-altering conditions. You are not alone. Obstacles will come, but there will always be a way to overcome them.
