Camping with Family

This weekend, some our extended family packed up tents, camping trailers, coolers, and enough snacks to feed a small army and headed into the woods for a long-overdue camping trip. For me, it wasn’t just another family getaway. Living with a brain injury means every activity comes with extra calculations: How much sun can my brain handle before the headaches kick in? How will I help my body stay cool? Will the uneven ground and lack of sleep trigger fatigue or sensory overload? What if I forget something important? Can I keep up without becoming a burden?

But we went anyway. Now with one day remaining we continue the adventure together.

The fresh air, crackling campfire, and laughter echoing through the trees were medicine in their own way. My kids ran wild with cousins, roasting marshmallows that caught fire more often than they turned golden. They hiked and I joined for the first part that I could, we swam in the lake, and we stayed up late telling stories under the stars. The brain fog never fully lifted, but moments of joy cut through it like sunlight through the canopy.

What has made the trip truly special, though, was watching my brother and his wife in action with my kids and theirs.

My brother has always been a steady one—the guy who can rig a tarp in a rainstorm, tell the best corniest jokes, and somehow make every kid feel like they’re the most important person on the trip.

These are the role models I want my children to have. Not perfect people, but kind, capable, fun-loving adults who show up. My kids watched them navigate camp life with patience and humor. They saw what it looks like to be reliable, to listen, to put family first even when it’s inconvenient. In a world that can feel chaotic and unreliable, especially through the lens of my injury, these examples matter deeply. My brother and his wife are living proof that strength and gentleness can coexist. They’re teaching my kids—by quiet example—how to be good humans.

Of course, not every part of family life feels this warm right now.

It doesn’t erase the ache of knowing other siblings have chosen active rejection. The silence, the deliberate distance, the quiet choice to step away from us as a family—it still hurts. Brain injury or not, family fractures cut deep. There are days when the grief of it sits heavy, even in the middle of a beautiful campsite surrounded by trees and tents. Especially with this campsite as the place three years ago that it became intentionally made clear by them that there would be no sharing in life from them anymore with me or us. You wonder what your kids are missing out on because of that choice of theirs still daily chosen by them for three consecutive years even still today. You grieve the relationships that should have and could have been if they’d choose differently.

But here’s the truth I’m holding onto: the pain is real, yet it doesn’t cancel out the good that remains. At least some of my siblings aren’t jerks to my family. They’re showing up. They’re creating memories. They’re modeling love and inclusion instead of exclusion. My kids get to grow up with some aunts and uncles who choose them, who make space for them, who demonstrate that family can mean safety and joy.

That doesn’t fix the rejection of some others. It doesn’t make the missing pieces stop hurting. But it does remind me that family isn’t all-or-nothing. Some branches wither while others grow stronger. And right now, I’m focusing on nurturing the ones that are reaching toward us, praying one day the dead ones that have cut us out of their lives will be vulnerable enough to be cut open to graft back on together again someday.

Camping with a brain injury isn’t glamorous. I needed more rest breaks. I forgot words mid-sentence. I leaned on my spouse and supportive siblings more than I wanted to. But the trade-off was worth it. My kids will come home sunburned, exhausted, and full of stories. They saw what healthy extended family looks like.

To my brother and his wife: thank you. For being the kind of people my kids can look up to. For making space in the chaos. For showing them that some family ties don’t break easily.

To anyone else navigating brain injury, chronic challenges, or complicated family dynamics: keep showing up where you can. The woods (or the backyard, or the living room) still hold magic. And sometimes the best healing comes not from forgetting the pain, but from noticing the light that exists alongside it.

Here’s to more campfires, more role models, and more grace for the messy, imperfect beauty of family.