Welcome to Fog of Hope
One early summer morning in 2012, I drove over two hours east from my home to visit my then-girlfriend’s family farm. The drive was pleasant—watching the sunrise, constantly adjusting the visor as it reflected off the pavement.
As I neared the farm, the sun vanished. I entered the thickest, densest fog I’d ever seen. My headlights barely pierced a few feet ahead. Instinctively, I slowed down. The road was straight, but visibility was near zero. Those last couple of miles felt slow, daunting, and strangely fascinating.
It wasn’t romantic. It was frustrating. I wanted to arrive, to see her. I’d driven fine for hours under clear skies, but here the beautiful day was trapped in impenetrable mist - here and only here apparently. The rest of the area was still experiencing sunny skies and a clear day. But here - speeds dropped, knuckles whitened, and the world shrank to a hazy cloud with occasional yellow road stripes appearing for brief moment at a time ahead of the car in the small clearing between the bumper and the fog on the road ahead.
I had a destination and someone waiting. The fog wouldn’t stop me. I couldn’t see the path, but I trusted the GPS on my screen. I knew the sun still shone beyond the haze. Most importantly, I could still reach where I needed to go—even if the journey was slower, harder, and more treacherous.
We’ve all driven through fog—sometimes light and airy, sometimes so thick we pull over. After getting married and eventually moving to and living on this farm for the past six years, I’ve encountered that fog here often. Yet each time feels a little different.
The New Fog
Now, I’m in a different type of fog: the fog of Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) recovery, specifically Post-Concussive Syndrome (PCS) following my injury in May 2023. In the first years, the fog felt dark, alone, and confusing. Now, it still can – but there is hope within the fog. I don’t mean the hope I used to think of - with getting out of the fog back to the sunny day someday - (although we all hope for that). But rather, the hope I’m referring to is a hope that can be found, experienced, and lived even amidst the densest parts of the fog TBI survivors and their families experience.
I’m no expert. I share only my experiences, lessons learned personally, insights from those who’ve walked ahead or beside me, and knowledge from doctors working to clear the haze. The fog may seem vague and intangible, (nebulous, even 😉), difficult to describe and nearly impossible to touch, yet it’s painfully tangible for those living it.
No two TBI journeys are identical—I’ve yet to hear one exactly like another in support groups. Yet I’ve also related to every single one I have heard in some way. Some have dealt with fog much darker and dense than I ever have. Others have a glimpse of a clearing only to find worse fog after that. Some make it out altogether!!! No matter where they are though, there is hope. If you’re here, you or a loved one might be in your own TBI fog—lighter or denser than mine, perhaps coming and going, or perhaps finally lifting. You’re not alone. I’m struggling through the fog today. I likely will be tomorrow too, and perhaps, every day to come. But this blog is a chance to orient myself within the fog even at the moments it is most difficult, and find the hope that is still present within it.
I’m still navigating my path, without many answers and unsure of tomorrow. But as I learn and share, I’m finding hope in the fog. Years ago, good things waited at the end of that drive in the fog—my now-wife. In this fog, good things exist too. They’re hard to see, hard to find, hard to accept—but they’re there. There is hope. You are not alone.
I owe so much to:
Seth Kimbro and his family and legacy - Giving Light to Darkness - who first showed me the peril the fog can have and the persisting light that is there even when it cannot be seen because the fog is so dense and heavy.
Cristabelle Braden and Hope Survives, for community, support, and the reminder I’m never alone.
Rob Baugh founder of My Life Rewired, for his vulnerability and friendship—patiently bearing with me despite my memory and fatigue struggles.
Above all, my wife and children, who endure this fog alongside me, showing Christ’s love for me daily through immense trials. Their patience, tears, joy, care, mercy, and forgiveness sustain me in a hope beyond all others.
I wouldn’t be this far without them. Thank you for joining me here. There are many who have lived in this fog before us and many who still are. Let’s find hope in the fog together. You are not alone.