One Word: Enduring
If I had to summarize my brain injury journey in one word, it would be enduring.
Not because it has been dramatic every day, or visibly difficult at all times, but because brain injury recovery is not a chapter that ends. It is something you live with, adapt to, and carry forward—often without fully understanding the scope of it until much later. Enduring captures both the strength required to survive the injury itself and the quiet persistence needed to navigate the long-term realities that follow.
When I first sustained my traumatic brain injury, the focus was survival and early recovery. I relearned how to walk. I relearned how to speak. From the outside, those milestones signaled success. To others—and even to myself—it looked like I was “lucky,” “high functioning,” and moving on. I believed that if I worked hard enough, stayed positive, and pushed through discomfort, I could return to who I was before. I didn’t yet understand that brain injury recovery is not about returning—it’s about adapting over a lifetime.
The most significant changes to my life’s trajectory didn’t all happen immediately. They unfolded slowly, quietly, and often invisibly. Over time, I noticed increased mental fatigue, difficulty functioning under stress, speech disruption in tense situations, sensory overload, and a growing awareness that my brain processed the world differently than it used to. These challenges didn’t mean I was failing—they meant my brain was injured. But because I didn’t fully understand that, I blamed myself. I tried harder instead of resting. I masked symptoms instead of explaining them. I stood tall and proud of how far I’d come, while quietly suppressing the parts of my experience that didn’t fit the recovery narrative people expected.
Brain injury reshaped my life in ways that go beyond work or physical ability. It changed my relationship with time, energy, identity, and self-trust. I had to relearn how to listen to my body and my brain—something I didn’t even realize I wasn’t doing for years. I became more intentional, but also more vulnerable. I learned that productivity does not equal worth, and that pushing through cognitive exhaustion often comes at a cost that isn’t immediately visible.
One of the hardest parts of living with a brain injury is navigating the misconceptions others hold. A common myth is that recovery has a clear endpoint—that after a certain amount of time, you’re either “better” or you’re not. Another is that if you can work, communicate, or care for a family, you must be fine. Invisible symptoms are often misunderstood or minimized. Cognitive fatigue, emotional regulation difficulties, word-finding issues, and stress-induced shutdowns don’t always show up on scans or in casual conversation, but they profoundly affect daily life. When these symptoms are dismissed, individuals with brain injuries may begin to doubt themselves, delay asking for help, or push beyond safe limits.
Perhaps the most important realization I’ve had—years after my injury—is that brain injury recovery is a life commitment, not a short-term challenge. I didn’t fully grasp what I was up against early on, not because I wasn’t paying attention, but because I didn’t yet have the language, education, or framework to understand it. Many survivors leave acute care believing that if they follow instructions and complete therapy, life will return to normal. What often isn’t explained is that the brain continues to evolve, compensate, and sometimes struggle under stress long after formal rehabilitation ends.
Knowing what I know now, I would have done a few things differently. I would have taken my symptoms more seriously, even when they were subtle. I would have advocated for ongoing education and support rather than assuming that confusion or overwhelm were personal shortcomings. I would have given myself permission to rest without guilt, to ask questions without embarrassment, and to acknowledge limitations without shame.
If I could offer advice to someone who has recently sustained a brain injury or is preparing to leave acute care, it would be this: your recovery does not end when therapy ends. Healing is not linear, and it is not always visible. Learn as much as you can about brain injury, not just in the early stages, but over time. Pay attention to how stress affects you. Build a support system that understands invisible symptoms. Pace yourself, even when you feel pressured to prove you’re okay.
Most importantly, understand that needing accommodations, rest, or long-term strategies does not mean you are weak or failing. It means you are living with a brain injury—and that is a reality, not a character flaw. You may not fully understand the scope of what lies ahead right away, and that’s okay. Awareness often comes later, and when it does, it can be disorienting. But that awareness is not a setback—it’s a turning point.
My journey has taught me that endurance isn’t about pushing endlessly forward. It’s about learning when to pause, when to adapt, and when to honor the brain you have now. If sharing my experience helps even one person feel less alone, more informed, or more prepared for the long road of recovery, then this enduring journey has meaning beyond my own.