When I become anxious, there are two things I do to calm down: I count backward from 10, slowly in my head, or I stretch my shoulders out and tip my head up, looking at the sky. Both have served me well over the years, sometimes more than others.

I learned them when I was in my early 20s and had a grand mal seizure a month before graduating from college. It was a definitive moment, one that resonated with a boom. It interrupted what I believed to be my narrative, filling me with an anxiety that I clung to for more than a decade. Every night when I went to sleep, I would remind myself, “Today, I didn’t die.” I tiptoed through my 20s frightened of my shadow.

When I was 32, and eight months pregnant with my daughter, I had another seizure. I was in the middle of a manicure, getting my nails painted a pale shade of pink, when it hit. My cellphone, left in my car, was useless. It was raining hard, and I was due to meet my husband at the hospital later that evening for birthing class. I was thinking about work and what I needed to do the next day, as well as what I might wear. My options were growing more and more limited. I had gained close to 80 pounds, something my doctor expressed concern about. He had advised me to quit it with the fast food, which I had never eaten in my life but had craved daily since becoming pregnant.

The nail technicians, terrified, called 911. Before I knew it, I was on a stretcher, being rushed to a nearby hospital. They contacted my husband, and he arrived shaken and white. My doctor followed and had me discharged, then sent me to the hospital where I was planning to give birth. Once I was treated and stabilized, I was put on bed rest and advised to be cautious for the remainder of my pregnancy, with weekly check-ins. My nails were a smeared mess, and I felt deeply frightened. I reminded myself again: “I didn’t die.”

My life was about to change remarkably — I was giving up a career that I loved and had worked hard at in order to stay home with my daughter. It was exciting, yet I felt uncertain. The fear came back, stronger than ever. How was I going to care for an infant? My shadow, once again, became my nemesis.

I soldiered on, white-knuckled and anxious. While the seizures became part of my history, the deep-rooted anxiety gripped my daily life. Fear became my default. It was as if I didn’t know better or couldn’t remember anything different. I continued to count backward and gaze at the sky to self-soothe, the way my daughter traded one pacifier for another.

As my daughter grew and daily life became busy with the minutiae of raising a child, my fear began to lessen. It became like a sweater that had once been snug but was losing its shape. I became pregnant again, three years later, and had a boy. Life grew bigger, fuller. There were play dates and classes, feverish late nights, the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I returned to work, feeling both fortified and overwhelmed. I didn’t die.

For years, I had avoided roller coasters after reading somewhere during a late-night Google session that they can cause seizures. Like many other things, I put them in the category of things that are unsafe, even though my doctors and husband had told me otherwise. I was careful, always so very careful.

A few months ago, we took our children to Disneyland. I spent the day with my son on the boats, on “It’s a Small World,” on anything that was available to the under-48-inches-tall crowd. My daughter begged me to go on a roller coaster with her. I said no and told her I didn’t like them. I didn’t tell her why, because I had kept my seizures a secret. She pressed, and I caved and got on the ride with her.

I was terrified. As we crept to the top of the hill with that unmistakable clicking sound, I shut my eyes and clenched the sides of the car. In an instant, we were gliding down the hill, taking turns on 45-degree angles and I opened my eyes. I was filled with an excitement that felt familiar, a long-lost friend I hadn’t seen in years. I threw my arms up and howled with delight. I didn’t die, or even think that I would. After it was all over, we rode again and again.

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Erin Zelle is a TV producer and writer living in Los Angeles, juggling career and family just like the rest of us. You can follow her on Twitter @ErinRZelle.

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