Chaotic Salad Luncheon

I came home from work already running on empty. The kind of exhausted that a brain injury turns from “tired” into something heavier, like trying to push through wet concrete. But we’d planned this. It was the church salad luncheon fundraiser—nothing fancy, just a community meal to support a good cause. I told myself I could do it. I wanted to do it. For my family. For the habit of showing up. And I was hungry too.

The moment we walked in, the room hit me like a wave. Noise everywhere—clinking plates, overlapping conversations, laughter bouncing off the walls. The space was packed with people, and the bright lights overhead felt like spotlights aimed directly at my skull. My brain immediately started glitching. Focus scattered. Sensory overload dialed up to eleven.

I made my way to the serving line with the kids, plate in hand, trying to dish up their food the way any parent would. But I couldn’t. The simple task of scooping salads and sides felt impossibly complex. My hands hesitated. My mind wouldn’t lock in. I stood there, frozen, while the line stopped behind me.

Thankfully, the staff noticed. Kind church volunteers stepped in without making a fuss, helping plate food for my kids until my wife arrived to take over. Her presence was an instant relief, but the embarrassment lingered.

We found seats at an empty table. I scanned the room hoping to spot a familiar face—someone I could sit with and pretend everything was normal. Nothing. Not one person I recognized. The disconnection added another layer of weight.

That’s when I realized I’d completely missed the drinks and desserts station. My son looked up at me with those big hopeful eyes and asked for something to drink. “Yeah, buddy, I’ll get it,” I said. I meant it. But minutes slipped by. I just sat there, staring, aware only of the growing fog. Time had passed without me.

My wife noticed, of course. She quietly stepped in, handled the drink, and saved the moment for him. She’s done this dance with me before.

I faded harder after that. The room grew louder in my head even as my awareness dimmed. I became aware that I wasn’t aware— that terrifying meta-awareness when your brain starts checking out and you know you’re no longer fully present. I needed to leave.

My wife asked me something. I have no idea what it was. The words didn’t land. She read my face, nodded, and moved forward without pressing. That small grace meant everything but I knew I really had to leave then.

I told her I had to go. I slipped out and made my way upstairs into the quiet sanctuary of the church itself. The chaos of the gathering continued below my feet, muffled now by distance and closed doors. I sat alone in the dim, peaceful space, closed my eyes, and prayed. Not for healing in that moment, but for rest. For gratitude. For the strength to keep trying even when trying looks like this and I'm failing.

All of the sudden my daughter appeared in the pew next to me. Choosing to leave the party below to be with me in my recovery. It was a beautiful moment after a hard choice to have to leave.

A simple dinner. One that used to be easy—show up, eat, chat, enjoy. Now it had decimated me.

But here’s what I carried home with me: my wife understands. My kids understand. They’re patient in ways that humble me daily. They don’t resent my limitations even though it costs them embarrass me ent, drinks, food , and fun to suffer through; they work around the limitations with love and quiet compassion. They let me retreat to the sanctuary without guilt. They protect my fragile bandwidth while still including me in the plan.

Living with a brain injury often means re-learning what “showing up” looks like. Sometimes it’s staying for the whole event. Sometimes it’s making it to the serving line. And sometimes it’s knowing when to find a quiet pew upstairs and simply rest in God’s presence while life hums along below.

If you’re carrying an invisible injury—whether from TBI, chronic illness, anxiety, or anything else that makes “normal” activities feel monumental—please know you’re not alone. Your best effort, even when it ends in retreat, still counts. And if you have someone in your life fighting these battles, your patience and understanding might be the most meaningful support they receive all week.

Thank you to the church ladies I don't even know who served with kindness, to the volunteers who stepped in seamlessly, and most of all to my wife and kids, who love me well on the hard days. Every day.

I’ll keep showing up in whatever form I can. One luncheon at a time. One day at a time. If even strangers and my seven year old can show up each day, shame on those that don't.