The 2025 Irish Epilepsy League writing competition was won by Offaly native and final year medicine student at University College Cork, Ellen Kinsella.
Speaking about her poem, Ellen said:
I have always written in my spare time and I am hoping to pursue a career in Neurology so this was a great way of reflecting on both interests. Creative writing is an outlet for me as a medical student, but it’s also a way to feel more connected—to myself, to my experiences, and to the human side of medicine. It helps me process what I see and learn, and reminds me why I chose this path in the first place.
Growing up on a farm in rural Co.Offaly gave me different insights into attitudes toward help-seeking and healthcare in rural Ireland, as well as the unique challenges that shape rural life. I believe we have a responsibility as future doctors to understand and adapt our care for people from different backgrounds, and to appreciate the diverse perspectives our patients bring.
You can read Ellen's poem in full below...
When the Light Flickers
They didn’t know what it was,
at first.
A strange stillness in Seán
one morning before school—
his spoon hovering,
eyes fixed on nothing
anyone else could see.
He slumped,
and his mother caught him
before he hit the tiles.
The porridge burned.
No one said much after.
Not then.
In houses like theirs,
you wait before giving things names.
A name makes it real.
The next time it happened
was in the field
behind the barn.
Katie found him face down in wet grass,
mud on his cheek,
eyes glazed.
She thought he was dead.
She didn’t tell anyone
she screamed.
They got a name for it, eventually.
Epilepsy.
Spelled out in long letters
on crumpled papers
from a hospital two hours away.
No answers.
No cure.
Just medication
and wait-and-see.
Life didn’t stop.
It couldn’t.
The calves still needed feeding.
The oil tank still leaked.
The milking went on
twice a day,
with or without seizures.
His father didn’t ask the doctor much.
Just nodded once
and said,
"He’ll manage."
No one was sure who he meant.
Katie grew quieter.
Not resentful—
just tired.
She got good
at being in the right room
when it happened.
Good at cleaning up
without comment.
She kept her friends separate.
She stopped staying late at school.
Their mother
stayed home more.
Stopped working at the shop.
Became a kind of weather gauge—
reading Seán’s mood,
his colour,
the twitch in his fingers
before the storm broke.
There was always a cushion nearby.
Always water.
Always a plan.
Neighbours heard,
but didn’t ask.
A tray of buns might appear
on the windowsill.
Or a lift offered
without explanation.
People don’t say much,
but they notice.
Sometimes,
on good days,
Seán helps with the hens.
Feeds them slowly,
deliberately,
like they might disappear
if he rushes.
He talks about space.
Galaxies.
How stars explode
and come back different.
Katie listens.
She doesn’t always answer.
But she listens.
There’s no big ending.
No miracle.
Seán still has seizures.
They still come,
whenever they want.
But the family has learned
how to move around them.
To work within the shape of it.
To keep going.
To sit with what is.
Not out of choice.
Out of something older.
Something like love,
though they wouldn’t call it that.