Danene Charles

But You Look Fine

I understand why people say it.

If you met me today, you probably wouldn’t know that I live with the effects of a traumatic brain injury. I can carry on a conversation. I can laugh. I can get dressed, put on my makeup, go to church, spend time with my family, and do many of the things I’ve always done. I look like Danene, and I am Danene. But there are things you cannot see.

That’s one of the biggest misconceptions I’ve encountered since my brain injury. If people can’t see what is wrong, it can be difficult for them to understand that something really is different. Sometimes people try to relate by comparing my experience to something they have experienced. They’ll say things like:

“I have diabetes.”

“I forget things too.”

“Everybody gets tired.”

“Maybe you just need to try harder.”

“Have you tried doing it this way?”

I don’t believe most people are trying to be insensitive. I think they’re trying to understand something they cannot see by connecting it to something they do understand and see. But sometimes those comparisons make me feel as though I have to prove that what I’m experiencing is real.

I don’t want to prove it. And I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I don’t even want the TBI, but sometimes life gives you what you don’t want. I simply want people to understand that looking well and being unaffected are not the same thing. Here’s one example.

I can be talking to someone on the phone and hearing their voice is fine. But if they have music playing in the background, a television on, or some other competing noise, I can’t take it. Sometimes I have to end the call. Another example is, If I’m in a confined space and the music is too loud, I need earplugs or it feels like the music is in my brain. It’s the worst feeling.

Before my brain injury, those things didn’t faze me. Now they do. People are sometimes surprised when I tell them. They’ll say, “Wow, it bothers you like that?” Yes. It does. And that’s the point. You can’t see that by looking at me. And I am not walking around with a TBI sign on my back like the Scarlet Letter.

There are things that require more of me now. Sometimes I need more time. Sometimes I have to approach a task differently. Sometimes I have to stop and come back to it. Things that once felt automatic now require more thought or effort. It has been a humbling journey.

I’ve had to learn that doing something differently doesn’t mean I’m not trying hard enough. It means I’m learning how to adapt to the life I have now. That lesson has not been easy for me. Before my injury, I spent decades in education and leadership. I was accustomed to being the person who knew what to do. People came to me for answers. I made decisions. I solved problems. I led.

Then life changed on February 21, 2020, and it’s only now that I feel comfortable talking about it. A man hit my parked car from the rear. I had just closed my door and I didn’t see him coming. The impact was so great that it knocked me unconscious for about 35 minutes as he took his last breath. The Lord spared my life, but a blood vessel broke in my brain which required surgery. The residual effects of that trauma are memory loss, headaches, shortened attention span, fatigue, word retrieval issues. It’s a daily unpredictable roller coaster.

But one of the hardest adjustments has been learning not to measure myself only against the woman I was before my injury. She’s still part of me. But so is the woman I am now. They are one and the same.

Recently, I completed six months of life coach training and became a certified coach. I made the Dean’s List. Some assignments required more time and effort from me than they might have before my injury, but I completed them. That accomplishment meant something different to me because I knew what it had required. Not because I had defeated brain injury. I hadn’t. I had learned that I could still grow, learn, contribute, and begin something new while respecting the ways my life had changed.

So when someone says, “But you look fine,” I understand what they mean.

What I hope they will understand is this: You cannot always see what a person is carrying by looking at them. Ask instead of assuming. Listen instead of comparing. And please don’t mistake a person’s need to do something differently for a lack of effort.

Sometimes the person standing in front of you, looking perfectly “normal,” is working much harder than you realize. I know I am. People sometimes believe that what they observe from the outside is more reliable than what the survivor is telling them from the inside. I’m speaking from the inside.

And I’m still here. I’m still learning, still contributing, still Danene and I love my imperfect life.