Newborn Tears
Lately, as my recovery inches along, I've noticed that although I often feel like a toddler, the toddler feelings at times feel... even earlier. Some days, it's less like being a feisty two-year-old and more like being a newborn all over again. That raw, brand-new-to-the-world stage where everything is basic, overwhelming, and completely dependent on the gentle people around you. It's humbling. It's exhausting. And weirdly, it's also kind of beautiful when I let myself see it that way.
Those Wide-Eyed, Wondering Stares
Newborns stare at faces, lights, shadows—with those huge, unblinking eyes—like they're downloading the entire universe one pixel at a time. No judgment, no rush, just pure taking-it-in.
Some recovery moments feel like that too. I'll catch myself staring at a wall, a window, my own hand, because my brain is slowly, slowly making sense of the world again. It's not blankness—it's deep processing. Curiosity mixed with caution. "What is this place? What am I in? What is going on?"
I try not to fight it. I let myself stare, let the brain do its newborn work of mapping reality one tiny piece at a time. Those staring sessions often lead to small breakthroughs later.
I’m Not Normal
Three years. That’s how long it’s been since I felt like the version of myself that other people used to know.
A traumatic brain injury didn’t just knock me out physically—it rewired how I think, how I speak, how I show up in relationships, and even how I see myself. For a long time I described it the only way that felt honest: I have a broken brain. Some days I still feel like a toddler trapped in an adult body—full of big emotions, zero filter, and the constant fear that I’m never going to be “normal” enough for the people I love.
But here’s what I’ve learned in three years of messy, imperfect recovery: “normal” was never the goal. The goal was honest. The goal was trying. And the goal was slowly becoming someone I could look in the mirror and say, “You’re doing your best, and that’s enough today.” The goal wasn’t to be loved, but to love.
Why am I a Zombie?
I don’t remember much of the first couple of years from my injury. But I’m forever grateful that prior to my injury I had learned the skill of journaling from a leadership course I had attended for my job. This skillset would prove to be one among many TBI recovery skills that are often taught post-injury to Brain Injured patients that I had been blessed to develop ahead of time. These skills somehow miraculously assisted in being able to regain entry into my job after the initial months of recovery off even though barely functioning internally. I don’t have as many journal entries as I retrospectively wish I would have had from the first year, but from what I can gather as I reread these early ones, the bulk of my initial days were literally sleeping so not much to record anyway. 18+ hours on most days. Falling asleep in the middle of loud activity all around. My time awake was spent staring out the window, at nothing truly. Unable to focus. Every light too much. Each sound so painful. These spots in my vision distracting, draining, confusing. Unable to do much and with little company there often was not much to journal about beyond my kids and wife in the pieces I could gather and understand, but I also thought I “just” had a concussion and was just resting and getting better and then eventually “just” Post Concussive Syndrome and just need to keep resting and I’ll be better. I never knew what this was and would end up being.
Early on I could not watch anything. The TV made me sick physically. Each scene cut transition every 3 seconds was too quick to process, too overstimulating for me. In the first days, I recorded that my wife and I went to watch a movie and I had it turned off within five minutes unable to process even the sound with my eyes shut. Everything was too much. It hurt, made me nauseous, and was overwhelming in a way that is so difficult to describe.