Happy 250 America
The Fourth of July can feel like a minefield when you’re living with a brain injury. What used to be a fun day of cookouts, family, and fireworks can quickly turn into overwhelming noise, flashing lights, social pressure, and crushing fatigue. The combination of loud sounds, bright bursts of light, heat, and large groups can trigger headaches, dizziness, sensory overload, confusion, and emotional exhaustion.
The Best Nightmare
I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, my ears ringing loudly, and my vision blurred with strange spots floating across my sight. I read in my notes that those symptoms are all normal for this new life now. I remembered having them the night before too. It was the kind of morning I’ve grown used to since my brain injury. But something was different.
Pulling Out My Brain
You know how sometimes people say they want to “pull out their hair”? For brain injury recovery I have felt that so strongly that I want to pull my hair out so strongly it pulls my brain out with it too.
I sat in a brain injury support group recently and listened as someone new to all of this poured out their pain. Their words came out in broken pieces — the exhaustion, the confusion, the rage at their own brain, the way everything that used to be simple now felt impossible. They were raw and honest in a way that only someone still in the thick of it can be. Some sentences didn’t make sense. Words were out of place.
Banana Split Cake
Tonight as the family went to an event my wife leaned in close and whispered, “Do you think you could make that dessert for her birthday?” Her eyes were hopeful, a little nervous, like she wasn’t sure if she should even ask.
Without hesitation, I smiled and said, “Yes. Absolutely.”
In that moment, I felt eager. Happy. Capable. Like the old me—the version that could jump into the kitchen without a second thought. I pulled out my phone to look at the name of the recipe my wife had asked me to shop for ingredients for again. Banana split cake. I searched for a recipe. The website opened with a warm, personal narrative from the author explaining why this dessert held such a special place in her heart. It was charming, full of memories and opinions about summer parties, family traditions, and the perfect balance of flavors.
Hosting Dinner
Even Strangers Come When Invited
Tonight our family hosted four college missionaries who are spending their summer traveling from parish to parish, leading faith programs for kids and teens. They arrived tired from a long day, but the moment they stepped inside, the house felt different—lighter, fuller.
I Cried Successfully Today
This morning I woke up and did what I always do now: I reread the notes about my life. The big reminders. The checklist of what I need to know to be successful each day. I studied them like they were instructions for a job I used to know how to do without thinking. Because they are. Even with them, they still often are not enough to be ‘successful’ each day.
The Empty Chairs
This weekend my house was full of the best kind of noise—kids running through the yard, overlapping conversations, the smell of food cooking, and the easy laughter that only happens when people who love each other decide to actually show up. Some of my siblings and their children were here, building new memories in real time. We hugged, we teased, we took photos, we made plans for next time. It felt like family is supposed to feel.
But the chairs that stayed empty still hurt.
Her Confusion
Losing a family member who is still alive is its own kind of grief. There’s no final conversation, no clear moment of goodbye — just the slow, painful realization that someone I loved has decided I no longer have a place in her life.
For a long time, I accepted her explanation that my words were the problem. They were too long. Too confusing. A messy sandwich of apology and hurt that was hard to follow.
But I don’t believe that anymore.
Passing the Ball
Right now, the FIFA World Cup 2026 is unfolding across the United States, Canada, and Mexico. It’s the biggest tournament in history — 48 teams, 104 matches, and nonstop energy from June 11 to July 19. For many, it’s pure excitement and a welcome escape.
For those recovering from a brain injury, the World Cup can be both helpful and surprisingly difficult.
Brain’s Painful Confusion
Living with a brain injury is a strange kind of confusion. The very organ that is damaged is the one tasked with trying to understand what has happened to it. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces while the puzzle itself keeps changing shape. Some days my thoughts feel clear and sharp. Other days they’re foggy, fragmented, or simply gone. I have to relearn how to process information, regulate emotions, and even recognize my own limitations — all while those limitations make the process harder.
There is a unique pain in this loop. The injured brain is constantly working to understand its own injury, yet the injury itself prevents full understanding. It’s exhausting. It’s disorienting. And it never fully stops.
Love’s Closed Door
After fourteen years of knowing each other, my sister has made her position unmistakably clear: she does not want me to know her, she has no desire to know me, and she wants me out of her life. She has reinforced this boundary repeatedly. By contrast, in just one year she went from meeting a stranger to agreeing to marry him. Yet after everything we shared over those fourteen years, she continues to insist that I leave her alone. Still, she speaks of wanting a picture-perfect wedding day surrounded by a “loving family.” Yet by her repeated choice to cut us out of her life, she actively prevents and makes impossible the very love and communion she says she desires.
Presence Over Distance
Yesterday, I sat across from old friends I hadn’t seen in years. What could have been a simple catch-up turned into something much deeper. In just a short time together, after a distance from both sides for the previous years, they poured out more genuine compassion, care, concern, prayers, and love than I’ve felt even from family in a very long time.
Rain, Rain, Go Away
You can feel it coming long before the first raindrop hits the ground. The sky turns heavy, the air feels thick, and your body begins to protest. For those of us with traumatic brain injury (TBI), approaching storm systems and rain fronts are more than just weather — they’re reliable triggers for symptom flares.
Headaches intensify. Fatigue becomes crushing. Dizziness spins harder. Brain fog thickens. Old aches flare up. Even mood and sleep suffer. Many of us now track barometric pressure forecasts as carefully as our daily symptoms.
What is Your Name?
Last night, my wife showed me a video that came up in her feed of Vice President JD Vance appearing on The View. Politics aside, I was impressed by a few things. Despite everyone fighting to get their words in and constantly interrupting each other, he remained remarkably patient and truly listened to the others. It reminded me how, with a brain injury, the chaos of overlapping voices and group conversations often makes it hard for me to participate fully. I still try — mostly by listening — but it would be a gift if our culture shifted toward more mutual respect instead of constant interruption. Everyone deserves a chance to be heard, not just the loudest.
Hidden Monastic Hope
Living with a traumatic brain injury often feels like a hidden, relentless cross. The fatigue, the dizziness, the cognitive struggles, the way it reshapes your role as a spouse, parent, and provider — it can all feel isolating and unending. In those dark moments, many of us turn to the saints who understood suffering. For me, St. Charbel Makhlouf has become a powerful source of comfort and hope.
Selling It All
My wife looked at me the other day and said the words I’ve been both dreading and expecting: “We need to sell everything and start over. Build a life that’s actually sustainable with a disabled husband.”
She’s not wrong. And that truth cuts deep. We can’t keep living a life that is no longer ours.
Our Children’s Grief
Three years. That’s how long this injury has reshaped not just my life, but the lives of our children in ways I never imagined and still struggle to accept. They watched a brain injury steal their father and their childhood in the course of an evening three years ago that has been unpacked each day since.
I see it in their eyes — the confusion, the sadness, the careful way they now navigate interactions with me. The dad they once had — the one who remembered every promise, played endless games, carried them on his shoulders, and led with steady confidence — has been replaced by someone who can’t remember what we did yesterday or how to do the most basic things of cooking or simply listening at times for them.
Manure, Sweat, and Surrender
Today I stepped outside with every intention of being useful. Just a simple chore—shoveling manure on our small farm. Something I used to be able to do for hours without thinking twice. Five minutes. That’s all it took today.
My arms burned. My legs turned to lead. The world started spinning. A pounding headache slammed into my skull. Sweat poured down my forehead, stinging my eyes, dripping off my face, soaking my shirt until it clung to my back like a second skin. And it was only 75 degrees outside. Not even hot by most standards.
I had to stop. Had to sit down, head between my knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Once again, my body had issued a hard stop I never asked for.
Sternly Misunderstood
Living with a traumatic brain injury (TBI) changes everything. The headaches, the fatigue, the fog that clouds your thinking—these are the visible (or at least documented) struggles. But one of the deepest, most devastating pains often stays hidden: the crushing weight of being misunderstood by the people who matter most.
I never expected that the hardest part of recovery wouldn’t be the physical symptoms, but the way my words now land like grenades in conversations with those I love. What used to flow naturally—explaining my feelings, sharing my thoughts, resolving a disagreement—now feels like navigating a minefield with a map I can barely read.
Praying They Never Emulate Her
I once believed the relationship I had with my sister was strong enough to withstand anything life could throw at us. We shared years of memories, support through hard seasons, and what I thought was a foundation built on love and loyalty. I never imagined a day would come when I would look at her choices and pray that my own children would never grow up to emulate the person she has become.