My Transmission is Shot
When Your Transmission Goes Out: What Car Trouble Taught Me About Living with a Brain Injury
We had a vehicle with a transmission starting to fail. The vehicle would act strange. The engine was revving, but the power wasn’t reaching the wheels the way it should. Shifting felt delayed and clunky. We made it home, but the warning lights came on, and we knew something was seriously wrong with the transmission.
After a painful diagnostic visit, the mechanic confirmed it: transmission is failing. Not a cheap or simple fix. The part that transfers power from the engine to the drivetrain was damaged, and without it, the vehicle couldn’t do what it was built for—even though the engine itself was still running strong. Sound familiar?
That moment hit me hard because it mirrored exactly what happened to my brain three years ago after my traumatic brain injury (TBI).
The Engine Still Runs, But the Transmission Is Shot
Before my injury, my brain worked like a well-maintained vehicle. Thoughts shifted smoothly. Emotions engaged when needed. Memory, planning, and communication all clicked into gear without much effort. After the TBI, it felt like my “transmission” got wrecked.
The engine (my desire to live and love and contribute) was still there. But the complex system that transfers thoughts into actions, emotions into words, and intentions into follow-through? That part was damaged.
Just like the vehicle:
I could want to do something (get groceries, have a deep conversation with my wife, stick to a schedule), but the power wasn’t transferring properly.
Sometimes I’d rev too high—get frustrated or overwhelmed—while making very little forward progress.
Other times I’d slip into neutral, feeling disconnected from the world around me.
Tasks that used to be automatic now required conscious effort and often failed under pressure.
And like a faulty transmission, the problems were invisible to most people. The vehicle still looked fine from the outside, the issue is invisible when the vehicle is parked and looked at. I still look mostly “normal” too. But like the failing transmission, anyone who rides with me long enough notices I’m not performing the way I used to.
The Hidden Cost to the People Riding With You
Here’s where the analogy gets painful: my wife and children have been in the passenger seats through all of this.
When your vehicle’s transmission starts failing, the driver isn’t the only one stressed. The person beside you feels every jerk, every delay, every time you limp into the next mile. She’s had to take over driving more often—handling things I used to manage effortlessly. Including driving more often literally too. She’s watched me struggle and seen our plans break down. Three years in, she looked at me and said she didn’t know if she could recognize our marriage anymore.
That crushed me. But the news for the vehicle at the mechanic gave me a new perspective. A damaged transmission doesn’t mean the whole vehicle is worthless. It just means it needs serious work, possibly a rebuild or specialized repairs. The same is true for a brain after injury. I couldn’t recognize a vehicle no longer driving how it used to, either. Things are different now. But different isn’t failure. Sometimes even in the brokenness, it is strength.
My wife has been through a lot—she’s been riding in a vehicle with a failing transmission for three years and still hasn’t bailed. That’s strength, not failure.
Repairing What’s Broken
The good news? Transmissions can often be rebuilt. It’s expensive. It takes time. You might need a specialist. But it’s possible.
My brain may be different, but it is still alive and running. Neuroplasticity is real. With the right therapies, strategies, patience, and support, I’m slowly learning new ways to shift gears. Some days are still clunky, but I’m making progress.
For the marriage, we’re doing the equivalent of taking the vehicle to a transmission shop:
We’re finding people who understand brain injury.
I’m learning to communicate better about my limitations instead of hiding them.
We’re both acknowledging that this is a “new normal” vehicle, not the old one.
What I’ve Learned
Don’t ignore the warning lights. Both in cars and brains, early intervention matters. I wish I’d sought more targeted help sooner.
The driver and passenger need support. Caregivers get worn out too. My wife needs breaks, validation, and her own resources—not just my gratitude. Same for our children.
You can still get where you’re going. It might be slower. You might take different routes. But the journey isn’t over.
Sometimes you need a tow. Asking for help—family, professionals, support groups—isn’t weakness. It’s smart maintenance.
If you’re living with a brain injury, or loving someone who is, know this: the struggle is real, but you’re not alone. Your “transmission” might be damaged, but your engine is still running. That means there’s still power, still potential, and still hope for the road ahead.
This post is shared from my own experience. Everyone’s brain injury and journey is unique. Consult medical professionals for your situation.