Casey Hayes

If I had to summarize my brain injury journey in one word, that word would be resilience. This experience has tested every part of me—physically, mentally, and emotionally—but I’ve continued to move forward, even on the hardest days. Resilience doesn’t mean I haven’t broken down or doubted myself—it means I’ve chosen to keep going in spite of it all.

My journey began on August 9, 2023, a date I’ll never forget. Just weeks before, I had been laid off from my job. I was actively interviewing, but something didn’t feel right. I noticed my body was shaking, and I had uncontrollable anxiety. My doctor prescribed an anti-anxiety medication, and I assumed all of it was due to job loss, stress, and uncertainty. Looking back, I wish I had requested bloodwork. Maybe the warning signs wouldn’t have been so easy to dismiss if I had seen them in black and white.

Still, I pushed forward, and I received a job offer for a new position. But as I waited to start, more troubling symptoms began to emerge—tremors in my right hand, worsening anxiety, severe brain fog, confusion, and an unshakable sense that something was very wrong.

I went to the emergency room on August 9. I was quickly admitted and told my sodium levels were at a dangerously low level—a condition called hyponatremia, often caused by drinking too much water and flushing out your body’s natural sodium. To correct it, the doctor performed a rapid sodium correction. That decision, unfortunately, triggered the start of what would become the most difficult period of my life.

While hyponatremia itself is not commonly known, what’s even less understood are its lasting effects—especially when treated rapidly. In my case, the correction led to a global-specific cognitive impairment that continues to affect me daily.

I was unable to start my new job and had to go on disability. The cognitive effects were immediate and overwhelming. I struggled with concentration, attention, and working memory. Information processing slowed to a crawl. Tasks that once felt routine, like multitasking or staying organized, became mountains to climb. The mental fatigue was—and still is—debilitating. Alongside the cognitive deficits came physical and emotional challenges: tinnitus, heightened anxiety, and depression. Life felt unrecognizable.

A year passed. I tried different doctors and treatment approaches, but the symptoms persisted. In August 2024, I made one of the most important decisions in my recovery: I enrolled in the Coastline Acquired Brain Injury (ABI) Program. This was the beginning of a new chapter.

The ABI Program gave me more than just therapy—it gave me tools, structure, and a sense of hope I hadn’t felt in a long time. The cognitive classes have been especially life-changing. These classes don’t aim to “fix” what’s been lost. Instead, they focus on compensatory strategies—skills to manage memory, attention, and problem-solving with confidence and consistency. I’ve learned how to self-regulate, pace myself, and adapt when tasks become overwhelming. These are now essential parts of my daily routine.

Equally transformative has been the psychosocial class. Before the program, I felt isolated. My condition is invisible, and that invisibility can be incredibly lonely. The emotional weight of depression and anxiety, layered over cognitive dysfunction, made every day feel like a battle I was losing. But through this program, I’ve developed emotional tools—ways to process my feelings, communicate more clearly, and advocate for myself. Learning how to cope emotionally has been just as important as learning to cope cognitively.

Since joining the ABI Program, my approach to life has changed in profound ways. I’m more patient with myself. I recognize that progress doesn’t always look like a straight line. I’ve embraced strategies like using calendars, breaking down tasks into manageable steps, and building in rest periods. These aren’t weaknesses or crutches; they’re smart adaptations—life skills that help me live fully with the brain I have now.

This journey has also reshaped the trajectory of my life. Before my injury, I measured success by productivity and career milestones. Now, success looks different—it’s showing up for myself each day, managing my symptoms, making meaningful connections, and continuing to grow. I’ve found purpose in healing. I’ve begun to see a future again, one where I might continue my education, re-enter the workforce in a new way, or simply enjoy relationships and experiences that give life meaning. Thanks to the program, I’m grounded in a sense of purpose and supported by a community that understands.

There are also many myths and misconceptions about brain injury that I’ve encountered. People often assume that if you “look fine,” you are fine. They don’t see the cognitive fatigue after 30 minutes of conversation, or the struggle to hold a train of thought, or the emotional crash after trying to multitask. The cancelled plans due to panic attacks and extreme anxiety. There’s a harmful myth that brain injury is a temporary hurdle—something you “bounce back” from. But for many of us, it’s a lifelong process of adaptation. Just because I’ve learned how to manage my symptoms doesn’t mean I’m “cured.” Understanding and compassion from others can go a long way.

Knowing what I know now, there are definitely things I would have done differently. First, I would have listened to my body earlier. I would have insisted on bloodwork and pushed for more thorough evaluations. I would have sought support sooner instead of waiting for things to get worse. For anyone recently diagnosed with a brain injury or preparing to leave acute care, my advice is this:

Don’t go it alone. Find a program, a therapist, a support group—anything that gives you structure and emotional validation. You are not weak for needing help; you are brave for accepting it.

Be patient with yourself. Recovery is not linear. Some days will feel like setbacks. But those don’t erase the progress you’ve made.

Use the tools. Whether it’s memory aids, calendars, rest breaks, or therapy exercises—commit to them. They work, but only if you use them consistently.

Advocate for your health. No one knows your body and your experience better than you. Trust your instincts.

In March 2025, I was hospitalized again for hyponatremia. It was a terrifying reminder that my journey with this condition may not be over—but I’m no longer the person I was during that first ER visit. I’m stronger, wiser, and more equipped.

My brain injury may always be part of my identity, but it doesn’t define who I am. I’ve learned how to live with my challenges and focus on my strengths. My journey is far from over—but now, I’m walking it with purpose, clarity, and self-worth.