The Silent Storm
Maya was eight years old when it all began.
At first, it was barely noticeable—just a strange movement of her tongue. She would suddenly stop mid-sentence, her eyes still alert and aware, as if her mouth had a mind of its own. The episodes were brief and puzzling at the beginning. Her parents thought she might be nervous or perhaps just distracted. However, it then started happening more frequently. The movements became more erratic, and though she never lost consciousness, it was as if something invisible was stealing moments from her.
Her teacher noticed, too. Maya, once a bright and curious child who loved reading and drawing, became withdrawn. She stopped participating in class. She would freeze in the middle of an activity, lips twitching, tongue flickering as if tasting something bitter that wasn't there. Children whispered. Some laughed. Maya heard it all and didn't understand a word. Soon, she refused to go to school.
Her parents, confused and frightened, sought help.
They visited pediatricians, neurologists, and specialists. Blood tests were done—normal. An EEG was performed—no signs of epileptiform activity. MRI scans showed a perfectly healthy brain. Everything was normal. But Maya was not. The episodes worsened. They began to occur in clusters, lasting longer —i.e., 2-3 hours —and leaving Maya exhausted. She struggled to speak afterward, sometimes needing hours before she could find her words again. She no longer played with her little brother or asked to go outside.
The girl who once danced in the living room now sat silently on the couch, her big eyes clouded with fear.
There was no clear treatment plan and no guarantee of improvement. Just uncertainty. Maya's parents tried everything. Dietary changes. Psychotherapy. Alternative therapies. Nothing seemed to help. The school offered support, but Maya was too embarrassed and too tired. She stopped going altogether. At night, her parents sat together in the quiet of their living room, the TV off, hands clasped in silence. They spoke in whispers, afraid Maya would hear their fear.
They worried about her future, about the unknowns that doctors couldn't explain. Their hearts ached with the helplessness of not being able to ease their daughter's suffering.
But they did not give up. They kept searching. They found a specialist in a distant city willing to take on Maya's case. They started a journal of every episode, documenting its duration, triggers, and aftereffects. They connected with other parents online, clinging to threads of shared experience. In that vast and confusing world of invisible illness, they found fragments of hope. They also found themselves on an emotional rollercoaster, from despair to hope, from frustration to determination.
One doctor gently mentioned subcortical epilepsy—a rare form, hard to detect, especially when tests show nothing abnormal. This condition often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed due to its atypical symptoms and the lack of clear diagnostic markers.
After starting her on anti-epileptic medication, to everyone's immense relief, Maya responded promptly—her involuntary movements nearly disappeared, a sense of hope returned, and her life began to feel light again.
In Maya's case, repeated EEGs are not necessary, as her previous recordings have been consistently normal. Subcortical epilepsy often does not show typical epileptic activity on EEG, making it an unreliable tool for monitoring her condition. Instead, her treatment is guided by clinical observation and regular blood tests to track medication levels.
