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 Don’t Need a Nap!
Hey friends,
I’ve been thinking more about this whole “recovery feels like being a toddler” thing, and there’s one part that keeps hitting me harder lately: emotions. Toddlers don’t just have feelings—they have huge, unstoppable, all-over-the-body feelings that come with zero filter and very few words to match. And honestly? That’s exactly where my brain is right now too.
Those Giant, Wordless Emotions
One minute everything’s okay, and the next a wave crashes in—frustration, sadness, being overwhelmed, or even sudden joy—and it’s so intense I can barely breathe through it. My chest tightens, my face gets hot, tears might show up uninvited, or I just feel like I need to move or hide or yell but nothing comes out right. It’s like my brain is back in toddler mode: the emotion center is fully online and screaming, but the “let’s put this into calm sentences” part is still napping in the corner.
I catch myself doing classic toddler things without meaning to: crossing my arms tight, huffing, pacing in little circles, or just staring at the floor because saying “I’m upset” feels impossible. Sometimes the only thing that escapes is a shaky “I don’t know” or “It’s too much.” And that’s okay. It really is. Just like a toddler isn’t “bad” for melting down—they’re just overloaded—I’m not “bad”, my brain is failing at processing when the feelings get too big. It’s still wiring itself back together.
Stacking Blocks
Why My Brain Injury Recovery Feels Like Being a Toddler Again
If you’ve ever peeked into the world of brain injury recovery, you know it’s a wild, unpredictable ride. I’m still in the middle of mine, and lately I’ve realized something that makes me smile (and sometimes tear up): it feels exactly like being a toddler all over again. Not in a cute, “aww, look at the baby steps” way—though there are plenty of those in recovery sure—but in the raw, confusing, “what just happened?” kind of way. Let me walk you through it, because if you’re recovering too, or love someone who is, maybe this little comparison will help you feel a little less alone… and a little more hopeful.
The Sudden “Where Am I?” Moments
You know how toddlers sometimes wake up from a nap and have no idea how they got there? Raising five kids, I’ve seen this often in their toddler years. One minute they’re in the car, the next they’re in their crib at home, blinking in total bewilderment. They wake up from their nap and confusion is on their face as they look around at the bustle around them in this new room that is different than the quiet carseat they fell asleep in. That’s my life now with memory gaps.
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.
Whose Lens Are You Looking Through?
I recently attended a life-changing educational opportunity with thirteen other incredible professionals. After six months of coursework together, we met for a two-week capstone course on leadership.
On the first day together, we encountered an activity as a group together surrounding the importance of checking our perspectives, our lenses, that we are looking through. Depending on the color of lenses, different numbers on a page of paper were visible to different people. The reality didn’t change, but only with the correct lens color could all of the numbers be seen.
Circling the Drain
As a child I loved to play with the Coin Vortex Funnel donation stations that would often be found at a museum or zoo that our family would visit. For a penny, I could have minutes of entertainment. Watching the penny shoot down the shoot into a seemingly endless spiral. Around and around the coin would go. Often it would seem the coin was circling the same exact spots. Higher, lower. Around and around. From above, watching the coin circle, I would see the path. I could see what was coming up next.