I didn’t expect to fall for someone under doctor’s orders.
When I woke up in the hospital, my first thought, after where am I? and what happened?, was, absurdly, can I still go skiing this year?
I’d always been an avid skier. I fell in love with the feeling of gliding over thick, powdery snow as a kid, learning to ski in the Alps during trips with my military parents.
Since moving to Los Angeles, the easy access to skiing at Big Bear Mountain was my escape from working in the cruel entertainment industry. Every fall, I dreamt of snow and slopes.
But after sudden back-to-back seizures and a shocking epilepsy diagnosis at age 25, my life became a series of restrictions, checking with my neurologist before doing almost anything. My diagnosis meant a new set of rules. Daily medication. No alcohol. No baths unless someone was monitoring me, a particularly undignified requirement. But hardest of all, no driving.
The rules weren’t just inconvenient. They made me feel like I had lost ownership over my own life. I went from being fiercely independent to needing permission for things that used to feel instinctive.
So when it came to skiing, my neurologist hesitantly approved, but under one condition: I’d need a companion.
I needed someone who could drive me, stay with me, and assist if anything went wrong. Epilepsy doesn’t care if you’re on a mountain. It just requires that you’re not alone.
That is how I ended up in the passenger seat of his Honda Civic, watching the skyline of Los Angeles fade into the horizon as we headed towards the San Bernardino Mountains.
I hadn’t told him about my two-month-old diagnosis. I didn’t want to put pressure on him to keep an eye on me. All I said was that I needed a ski buddy and couldn’t drive right now. I left it up to him to draw his own conclusions. He probably drew the wrong one when I mentioned I also couldn’t drink.
Nevertheless, he agreed to drive the four-hour roundtrip for a ski day in Big Bear. He too was looking for a ski buddy since moving to Los Angeles. We met through a mutual friend. Initially, he seemed reserved, the kind of person who stayed on the edge of conversations.
But in the car, he turned out to be funny and easy to talk to, opening up about things he loved: surfing, 2000s music, and the fact Shrek is, without a doubt, better than Shrek 2 (a point I strongly disagreed with). He spoke with a kind of genuine enthusiasm that made me want to care about them too.
The drive became more than a means to the slopes, it was the best part of the trip.
What began as a practical arrangement shifted into something more. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt normal. Everything about the drive felt unexpectedly easy.
Our connection grew while skiing, despite it being so early in the season that snow only covered one green run. We raced down the same stretch all day, eager to continue our chairlift conversation.
When he dropped me off that evening, I knew I wanted to do it all again the next weekend.
But as I lay in bed that night, I worried my diagnosis would disrupt this budding connection. Worst-case scenarios plagued my mind: I’d have a breakthrough seizure on the mountain, he’d see all of it, and decide it was too much.
I was ashamed of a condition I couldn’t control, unsure how it would affect my future, and was still learning how to talk about my diagnosis without tacking on an apology. Every time I said the word “epilepsy” out loud, it felt like I was handing someone a reason to see me differently.
I was still coming to terms with my diagnosis. How would someone else accept me?
Before I could decide the answer, he texted and asked if I was free the next Saturday to ski again. My first reaction was butterflies. The second was dread.
I knew that if anything was going to move forward, I had to tell him. But I also knew it might end things before they had the chance to begin. Or at the very least, cost me a ski buddy.
The Friday before he was scheduled to pick me up, I shot him a quick text.
Just so you know, I can’t drive because I have epilepsy.
I held my breath as I watched his text bubbles appear, disappear, and then reappear.
Should I still pick you up at 7am?
I read the message twice, almost confused by how normal it sounded. No hesitation, no concern, just the same plan, unchanged.
The next morning, waiting on the sidewalk with my ski bag, I again let my worries take over, wondering if he’d realize what he’d signed up for and back out.
But at 7am, he showed up. On the way, he asked about my epilepsy, not to evaluate whether it was too much, but to understand how to be there if it ever was. Something in me softened after that. I wasn’t thinking about what could go wrong, I was excited about what could go right.
We spent the rest of the ski season growing closer, until somewhere along the way, he became my best friend. By the summer, we started dating and together we bought our ski passes for the next winter.
I thought all I needed was someone to watch me in case something went wrong. I didn’t realize I was learning what it felt like for someone to accept me before I even accepted myself. Because of epilepsy, I needed someone to be there, not romantically, but practically. And in that space of dependence, something real grew, giving me the independence to live to the fullest.
What I learned is this: love isn’t about making the ride smooth, it’s about who’s willing to ride with you despite the bumps.
Carolyn Bradley is a Los Angeles-based writer and producer whose television credits include projects for CBS, Hulu, Prime Video, A+E, and History. She holds a BFA in Writing for Screen and Television from the University of Southern California. Her writing explores identity, belonging, and the complicated ways we relate to ourselves and one another. She is currently developing short-form prose and novels alongside her work in entertainment.