by Mrs. Tylar Phorever

Here I am. Waking up again — except I haven’t woken up like this in almost eight months. Woah.

I get a sudden rush of lightheadedness. Next, I hear, “Babe, you okay?” I respond, half awake, “yeah,” and my husband tells me I had a seizure. Instantly, I was discouraged. Instantly, I was shocked. The last thing I remember was laughing with him on a normal Sunday.

There was no time to ask questions or even recognize the pain. My body and mind were too drained to do anything but drop back down into the pillow. Hours later, when I came to, the questions came too.

My mouth felt off — sore, weird. I went to the bathroom and saw that, once again, a seizure had attacked my teeth. In the mirror, a tooth dangled from my gum, still connected at the root. I laughed faintly as I touched it, partly to see the extent og the damage and then popped it back in place. Thankfully, I didn’t bite my tongue badly that time — no vomiting, no major fall — just soreness and confusion.

The next day, I noticed the robe I was wearing during the seizure. It was stained. I got a little irritated, thinking I’d forgotten to take my makeup off. And that it was so much. I mentioned it, and my husband corrected me:

That moment stopped me cold. Seeing that blood showed me the reality of my why.

Before that, I had already told the world I broke my seizure-free streak. I posted about it. I was honest. I was disappointed. I was aiming for a full year seizure-free and fell short. I couldn’t help but feel like I let myself down.

The response was filled with love — family, friends, followers pouring in with messages of encouragement, advice, and reminders of the blessing in simply surviving. I saw it all. I appreciated it. But if I’m being real? I couldn’t embrace it then. Not fully. I was stuck in defeat mode.

But the day I saw that bloody robe — everything clicked. I went back to that post. I scrolled through the comments again, and one message from my family hit me differently this time:

That line changed my entire thinking. Because yes — eight months! Eight months of confidence, consistency, good days, hard days. Eight months of commitment. And while it wasn’t a full year, it was still progress.

The last streak was six months. Before that, seizures were happening daily, weekly, monthly, whenever they felt like it. But now? You’ve got to work to touch me. I’ve only had two seizures in the last fourteen months. Let’s go, Tylar!

There was so much to be proud of, but I had let that instant disappointment rewrite the story. That’s why reflection matters … it reminds you what’s actually happening versus what your emotions are trying to tell you in the moment.

I had to ask myself: what am I really focusing on — the fall, or the fact that I rose higher than ever before? That’s when I realized: the “winner” in me never left; she was just buried under the weight of what didn’t go as planned.

That robe… it showed me me. The battle between my purpose and my limitations. And uh, newsflash — I’m unlimited. My body still fights, but so does my mission.

We like to think growth means moving straight ahead — no pauses, no pit stops, no restarts. But real growth has detours. It circles back, it stretches you, and sometimes it even resets you. Sometimes the comeback is quieter than the breakdown — but just as powerful.

Embracing my setback as part of my journey flipped everything. It turned loss into lesson, pain into perspective, and confusion into clarity. And baaaabbbbeeee, that understanding fueled me.

If you take anything from this, let it be this: get understanding. Understanding changes everything.

Because once I truly understood — that moment right there — it didn’t just give me peace, it gave me correction and alignment. It reminded me how much of a winner I am. My drive felt thicker, stronger, wiser. My passion didn’t return; it expanded. It’s like that moment re-lit something in me and it never dimmed back down.

Now every day since, I’ve felt that same fire — but different. Even more focused. Purposeful. This time, I’m moving further, smarter, safer.

So yeah … eight months.

Eight months of confidence, consistency, commitment — eight months that reminded me what I’ve been building.

Eight months taught me that my peace wasn’t in the absence of seizures — it was in my consistent will to obtain it.

So let’s keep it going — back on set, embracing another year.