When you walk into the edge of those dark and lonely woods, the air changes. The trees seem to lean in close, shadows stretch longer, and the silence is heavy, almost suffocating. That’s what life often feels like with Tim’s PNES—Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures. It’s not just an illness, it’s a landscape, a place we wander together, where the path is sometimes too dark to see and the way forward uncertain. I’ve learned that when he enters that shadowed place, my role is not to point out the exit or demand he find it faster. My role is to be a light, however small, flickering and imperfect, steady enough to remind him he isn’t alone.
There are days when I ask, “How was your day?” and his quiet reply, “Not so good,” holds the weight of battles invisible to most people. It isn’t about spilled coffee, or running late, or the sort of things others complain about casually. His “not so good” carries the exhaustion of a body that seizes without warning, the ache of a heart that has known too much darkness, and the frustration of a mind that whispers cruel things about his worth. Those are the days when nothing seems to work the way it should, when small tasks loom impossibly large, when just making it through is an act of courage. And those are the days I whisper, aloud or silently, “I will shine the light.”
Light takes many forms. Sometimes it’s a wordless hug when the seizure subsides and he’s trembling in my arms. Sometimes it’s staying awake beside him when worry refuses to let him sleep, listening to the sound of his breathing until it evens out. Sometimes it’s the mundane but grounding act of making tea, of rubbing his back, of reminding him with touch and tone that he is here, that he is safe, that he matters. Other times, light looks like advocacy—explaining to someone what PNES is, why it isn’t “just stress,” and how it has reshaped our daily lives. Or it’s handling the phone call, the paperwork, the logistical burden he doesn’t have the strength for in that moment. Light is steady presence, small kindness, fierce love.
But light doesn’t erase the storm clouds. Depression often hovers above him like a sky full of gray, the kind of clouds that blot out the sun for days. It steals joy, sleep, appetite, and sometimes even the desire to keep moving forward. I watch him fight battles no one else can see, battles I cannot step into on his behalf, though I wish I could. There are moments when I feel powerless, when I would give anything to trade places with him, to carry that crushing weight for just a little while. Instead, all I can do is be there—hands open, arms ready, words soft but firm—reminding him that though the skies are heavy, we are still walking. That he may not see how we’ll get through, but we will.
The nights can be the hardest. Worries circle his mind like vultures, robbing him of rest, stealing the very thing he needs most. Sleep comes late, fractured, or not at all. I lie beside him in the dark, hearing his restless movements, his sighs, sometimes the subtle shifts before a seizure strikes. In those hours, my light is small but stubborn: a hand resting over his heart, a quiet “It’s okay,” a gentle tether to the here and now. And when dawn arrives and we are both weary, I remind him that exhaustion isn’t defeat. That tomorrow, even if it looks like today, is still another chance to try again.
Life with PNES is full of unknowns. A seizure can come while we’re at home, or in the grocery store, or driving, or sitting in church. Depression can lift for a few days, making room for laughter, only to return with a vengeance. The unpredictability itself wears on him, and on me. It often feels like stepping into the great unknown with no map, only trust. Some parts of the road he must walk alone—inside his own mind, inside his own body. Some parts I walk alone, carrying my own fears and fatigue. But at the end of each stretch, we find each other again. That reunion, however small, is its own kind of light. Love, in that moment, is the loudest clap, the warmest welcome home.
There are days when his heart feels as heavy as stone. I see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the quiet heaviness of his voice, in the way he looks into the mirror and struggles to recognize himself. Depression distorts reflection, convincing him he is less than he is. And that’s when my role becomes clear: to be the mirror that reflects the truth back to him. To remind him that he is loved, worthy, strong, and more than the illness that grips him. When the shadows close in like a hand around his throat, I stand close enough for him to feel my hands instead—steady, grounding, protective.
Loving someone with PNES has taught me more about love than anything else ever could. Love is not the tidy thing we grow up imagining, full of roses and sweeping moments of perfection. Love is staying in the room when the seizure takes over. Love is choosing patience when frustration burns at the edges. Love is clinging to small victories and celebrating them as if they were mountains conquered. Love is messy, but it is real. And real love shines brighter than any storm.
There are moments of levity, too. Tim’s humor has a way of sneaking through the cracks, even on the hardest days. He can still make me laugh with a well-timed comment, still surprise me with resilience when I least expect it. There are mornings when his eyes are lighter, when we sip coffee together and talk about nothing in particular, when the weight lifts just enough for us to breathe. Those moments are treasures. They are proof that even in the woods, even under clouds, the light is never entirely gone.
For those who walk a similar road—partners, caregivers, loved ones of someone with PNES or depression—know this: your presence matters. You may feel invisible in your efforts, you may doubt whether your light is strong enough. But simply by standing beside them, by refusing to leave, by holding space for them when the world feels unbearable, you are offering more than you realize. And if you are the one living with PNES, if you are the one carrying the crushing weight of depression, please hold on. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not a burden. Your life matters, your story matters, and there are hearts that will shine the light for you until you can see it again yourself.
So when Tim’s heart is heavy, when his body betrays him, when his mind whispers lies too loud for him to silence, I return to the same promise: I will shine the light. I will hold him until everything feels safe again. I will shine the light—not because I never falter, not because I am endlessly strong, but because love is, at its heart, a decision. A decision to keep shining, to keep showing up, to keep choosing each other again and again. And I know that when my own woods grow too dark, when my own heart falters, he will shine the light for me, too.
Together we walk. Together we stumble and rise again. Together we carry the stone, weather the storm, face the night. And together, no matter how long the woods stretch before us, we will keep shining the light.
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