Keep Me Uncomfortable

My life has been marked by discomfort from a very young age. Some might say I was dealt a bad hand, maybe even “cursed.” But I see it differently—I was blessed. Even in my deepest discomfort, God always showed up. 

When I was just one year old, my brother, in his playful excitement, accidentally jumped into my crib, causing me to fall out headfirst and lose consciousness. My mom, terrified, called 911, fearing the worst. A Trauma Hawk helicopter arrived swiftly, and by God’s grace, I was rescued. Miraculously, I suffered only a mild concussion. When I woke up, I was giggling and smiling, blissfully unaware of what had happened. I was simply happy to see my family, especially my brother. Looking back, I realize that this was my first encounter with the gift of grace. It was also my first experience with discomfort. Today, I can confidently say I count it all joy. Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds…(James 1:2).

Six years later, I had my first seizure. The doctors weren’t concerned—they said it might just be a one-time event. But that wasn’t my story. This marked the beginning of a nine-year journey with epilepsy. As a seven-year-old, full of life and joy, I was suddenly on more medication than my little body could handle. At first, hospital visits were almost fun—I was treated like royalty with gifts from nurses, flowers from friends, and prayers from pastors across Palm Beach County.

But soon, that novelty wore off. By the time I was 10-12, bitterness, anger, and depression set in. Why couldn’t I be like other kids? Why didn’t I have control over my body? My PE coach didn’t allow me to play, fearing it might trigger a seizure. I felt isolated. Fear and worry consumed me. My weight fluctuated, and my body image suffered. I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror anymore.

Between 13 and 15, I was hanging out with the wrong crowd, dabbling in drugs, and slipping into promiscuity. When a close friend committed suicide, I attempted to follow. My mom found me in that state and did everything in her power to keep me alive. But life already felt over for me. I was battling in silence, unseen, unheard, uncared for—at least, that’s how it felt.

At 15-16, the dark clouds began to lift. A friend invited me to church, something I had strayed far from despite growing up in it. She was persistent, and after countless “no’s,” I finally said yes—if only to stop feeling annoyed with myself. I was nervous, making jokes like “I’ll burn when I walk in,” and “People like me don’t belong here.” But I was wrong—so very wrong.

The miraculous life transformation didn’t happen overnight. I was good at hiding, and I preferred it that way. No one could hurt me if they didn’t really see or know me. And if they did, surely they’d hate me—so would God. But I couldn’t see the pattern that was there all along—God’s urgent and efficient interventions, like the Trauma Hawk that had rescued me years before. God had always been there, rescuing me from myself, but I was blind to it.

Then came a routine doctor’s appointment that required me to spend a week in a neurological hospital over my Spring Break—a real drag for a 16-year-old. This week of tests—EEGs, CAT scans, and round-the-clock monitoring—seemed pointless. We found nothing, no brain activity issues, no tumors. As the week ended, I felt defeated. But then, just before I was discharged, the doctor suggested one last option—a gluten-free diet. It sounded ridiculous to me at the time, but I took on the challenge not knowing this would change the course of my life. 

Three months in—no seizures. Six months—still none. I reached the year mark, and for the first time in a long while, I felt joy again. I could finally get my driver’s license—something I had been told I’d never do. Each milestone motivated me to keep going, even though I missed the carefree days with my friends. I was starting to realize I didn’t need to run away from my problems anymore. Still, I struggled with people-pleasing, so I continued to hang out with the wrong crowd for a while. But it felt different, I knew I needed change but I was afraid.

But then, a friend randomly called me out one day saying, “Dani, you look prettier sober and not looking for validation from others” It hit hard. She saw right through me, and I was too vulnerable to deny it. This encounter marked me because she saw me at my worst and challenged me because she saw something in me that I didn’t see myself. We started going to church together, holding each other accountable. I began to cut out the toxic influences in my life, breaking off a toxic relationship and quitting smoking.

On January 25th, 2015, we were both running late to church but promised we’d get there. I arrived first and sat alone—something I hated. That day, the pastor made an altar call for those who wanted to commit their lives to Jesus for the first time like he usually did. But this time he made another call, it was for those who wanted to recommit. I knew that was for me. Through tears, I stood up to walk to the altar, and there, on the other side of the room, was my friend, also standing. We had both decided to give our lives to Jesus at the same time. We rushed to join each other in a warm embrace with tears of joy streaming down our faces. That moment taught me the power of community and the importance of not walking this journey alone. 

At the time, my family and I were living with relatives due to financial struggles. On paper, we looked broken, lost, and unwanted. But God was stripping away everything to get our full attention. I woke up one day and told my mom I wanted to transfer schools to one far from civilization—my hometown, a place I associated with so much pain. A month later, God opened doors we couldn’t have imagined, and we moved to a place near that school. 

That move was a literal move of God, and from there, everything began to change.

No human intervention could have orchestrated the divine interventions in my life. My story didn’t end at 1, 7, 13, or 16 years old—it had only just begun. When I committed my life to Christ, I signed up for a lifelong journey of joyous discomfort. It hasn’t been a straight path—it’s been a winding road with steep climbs and deep valleys. But through it all, God has never abandoned me.

My story doesn’t end with a period—it ends with a comma because the journey of discovering Christ and seeking His face never ends. My life is dedicated to serving Him, but I won’t always get it right. I’ll fall short, again and again, but I’ll always find my way back to the cross, back to the altar where 16-year-old me was changed for eternity. That’s exactly where He wants me to be.

So, if you’re struggling with self-doubt, suicidal thoughts, depression, destructive body image, substance abuse, loss, or separation from Christ—whatever it is, it’s not too big or small for Him. Bring it to the foot of the cross and leave it there. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is to stop taking back the things I give to God. Let Him have it, live in freedom, and don’t look back.

My testimony isn’t pretty, and I’m really grateful for that. I love the messiness of all the discomfort because it’s in the mess that I’ve learned the most valuable lessons. I had to endure deep, dark sadness and struggle to know the true joy of the Lord. I was rescued by man, but I was saved by Christ.