It's Camping Day!

I woke up with a headache already settled in, the kind that makes the light feel sharper and the sheets feel heavier. My body felt crummy in that familiar post-TBI way—foggy, low-energy, like I was moving through water even before I sat up. Some mornings the injury still decides the tone of the day before I do.

Then I opened my eyes.

My four-year-old son was standing on the edge of the bed, balanced like it was the most natural place in the world to be. His face was lit up with pure Christmas-morning giddiness, the kind that doesn’t hold anything back. He bounced once, then leaned in close and announced, loud and certain:

“It’s camping day!!”

Just like that. No warm-up. No gradual climb into joy. He was already all the way there—eyes bright, voice full of wonder, body vibrating with the knowledge that today held our camper and flashlights and sticky marshmallows and the big outdoor world waiting for him.

I smiled. Of course I smiled. I reached for him, pulled him into a hug, and said something about how exciting it was. The words came out right. The actions were right. But inside, the feeling itself stayed distant—like I was watching the moment through thick glass. The headache pulsed. The fog stayed. And the full, electric rush of matching his excitement simply wouldn’t rise the way it used to.

That’s one of the quieter, stranger parts of living with a TBI. Emotions don’t always arrive on time, or at full strength, or in the same shape they once did. Joy can feel muted. Anticipation can feel flat. Even the good moments sometimes land with a soft thud instead of the bright spark they used to carry. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that the pathways that used to light up so easily now take longer, or take detours, or sometimes just… don’t fully connect.

Watching him this morning—standing on the edge of the bed like the day was already a celebration—I felt the familiar ache of missing something I used to take for granted. I wanted to feel it the way he does. That complete, unfiltered, Christmas-morning kind of excitement. The kind that fills your whole chest and makes everything else fall away for a minute. I wanted to meet him there, not just beside him.

I still hope I will again someday. Maybe not exactly the same as before—brain injuries don’t always hand those things back neatly—but close enough that the glass gets thinner. Close enough that when he says “It’s camping day!!” with that pure, bouncing joy, something inside me can rise to meet it without having to climb so hard.

For now, I hold him a little tighter. I pack the cooler. I help set up the campsite. I watch his face light up over and over. And I keep showing up for the days he has already decided are worth celebrating—even on the mornings my head hurts and my feelings feel a step behind.

He’s four. He’s certain the day is going to be wonderful.

And some part of me, even through the fog, is still learning how to believe him.