Surviving a Traumatic Brain Injury: My Recovery Story

The brain makes us who we are. It shapes our personality. It processes our experiences. It regulates emotions. When the function of the brain’s ability to process information is damaged, there is no deeper presence of surrender possible—and no stronger need for loving care. This is my story of healing from a traumatic brain injury—a terribly tragic event that gave me a renewed mission for life. It’s a recovery story not yet concluded, but one of significance in marking milestones up until this point.

On January 6, 2023, I was hit in the head by a swinging metal bar while working out at the gym. No one was to blame—it was an unfortunate wrong place, wrong time moment. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because while it hurt, I remained conscious. I didn’t know the vomiting was related or that what I had experienced was the infamous “seeing stars.” In the days that followed, I doubted all the signs that pointed to something more serious happening—blaming the symptoms on my hormonal cycle, Mind-Body Syndrome (MBS), and inner turmoil over canceling a passion-led work project the day leading up to the accident.

Even when I noticed the large bump on the back of my head a couple days later and subsequent headache, I didn’t put it together with the incident. I didn’t understand what was happening or comprehend how my thought processing was slowing down. I couldn’t see how the damage done and inflammation that would grow in the weeks coming would completely implode life as I knew it.

I had heard of concussions before but associated them with footballers that eventually went back on the field. I never heard about long-lasting effects, and I certainly never heard about the dramatic spectrum of symptoms that can result given a particular impact. I would eventually learn that the most important thing you can do following a blow to the head is not get hit again, which is why the car accident when I was 16-years-old that caused me to black out may have paved the way for worse damage this time around. As I share my story here, please let it be known that I represent one story—and mine turns out to be one of incredible good fortune, because ultimately, I survived.

What happened?

The week following the injury I felt confused about what was happening. I used all my tools of mindfulness, emotional processing, breathwork, affirmations, and movement. I tried to push through the headache and nausea and keep working. At one point I even drove myself to the dentist, confused by how my vision was altered and things didn’t look like or feel usual. Overwhelming anxiety, emotional mood swings, and depression became suffocating. My vision grew blurry, and then I began having trouble speaking—as if there was a disconnect between my mouth and my brain.

Exactly one week after the impact, I began contemplating suicide, and I knew I needed help. This wasn’t like the emotional turmoil I had survived in the past, because I actually had a lot of positive things going for my life and worked through a lot of stored trauma from earlier years—I had just started my health coaching business and was enjoying working with people one-on-one. I was consulting for a great nonprofit with an amazing group of women and had just mapped out a year of impactful strategy for the Biomimicry Institute where I served as Communications Director. I was freediving, experiencing minimal to no pain with my back, had a growing community, and felt strong about the path I was on. Now reflecting on those days, and having the past several months to get where I am today, I wish I could give myself a hug back on January 13th when I finally went to see a doctor.

Over the years I have made a practice to journal every morning. Looking back on that first week, I didn’t notice how hard it had become to read and write, because I kept pushing through. The writing is barely legible, but I can make out a haunting journal entry from the morning of the 13th that reads:

“I feel paralyzed by grief but without knowing why. The anxiety is overwhelming… I don’t understand what is happening. I am afraid of losing myself, leaving my people, because of one moment of not feeling strong enough to stay here. I want to go back to bed… I’m afraid to call the doctor, because they may think these feelings are because of my period. I’m afraid of being gaslit… I’ve lost faith in the medical system. They can’t help me.”

I was convinced all the emotional distress, the headache, the nausea, the blurred vision and eye pain, and the confusion was “in my head”—that there wasn’t really an anatomical problem. I was gaslighting myself. It was the speech issue and feelings of deep confusion that convinced me to go to the doctor.

When I arrived, I was noticeably moving, thinking and speaking slower. I had finally put together that the impact to the back of my head with the metal bar was the culprit of the headache, but it took hearing from the urgent care doctor that I had a concussion that I accepted something truly wrong. After a few scans to rule out brain bleeds, and a prescription for no technology and rest for the next week, I had my direction for recovery and was certain in two weeks I would be back to “normal.” My mom flew in the next day to help care for me, and I truly thought the worst was over. I sure was wrong about that.

It took about three weeks for the symptoms to fully set in from the inflammation my body produced in trying to heal the injury, possibly made worse by that first week of denial (and subsequent weeks of pushing through, attempting to force healing). In that time, I lost my sense of identity, the ability to communicate, and my senses were incapable of receiving stimuli—which essentially means all light, sound, touch, smell, and taste were intolerable.

I was focused on returning to work, afraid I would let my people down and short-sighting the true reality of my injury. When the symptoms had not improved a few weeks after seeing the doctor, it was time to see a neurology specialist. He diagnosed my concussion as a traumatic brain injury (TBI) and said I was suffering from Post-Concussion Syndrome (PCS), a catchall term for anyone that has persistent symptoms following a head injury after an adequate amount of healing time. The great news was there was no extra bleeding in my brain, but the hard news was I’d have a challenging road to recovery. He prescribed a thorough memory assessment to properly identify which areas of the brain were damaged, cognitive therapy, and speech therapy. Medications for pain and nausea were made available, but that wasn’t a path I chose to take, because I didn’t want to numb the symptoms (or produce side effects from those medications)—I wanted to heal and ensure the pain wouldn’t turn chronic.

By mid-February I was deep in the recovery work, still not understanding what had happened to me. I wouldn’t begin to understand until March and wouldn’t have a single moment of relief until May—after two torturing MRIs and weeks of recovery from a transient ischemic attack, otherwise known as a mini-stroke.

I was hit in the back left part of the brain known as the Occipital Lobe, which is involved in vision, and that area is generally involved in coordinating the right side of the body. The theory based on the memory assessment was that the force ricocheted from there to the front right part of my brain, which controls processing speed, language and speech. Understanding the problem accurately not only helped create the best healing protocol, it also helped in making sense of the symptoms (such as why my dominant right side was now weaker and less coordinated than the left or why my right eye formed cluster headaches). I cannot underestimate the incredible functioning of the brain—and why targeted brain exercises, balanced with strong habits around food, rest/sleep and movement, can determine healing capabilities from an injury like mine.

The prognosis I was given was positive—a hopeful 6-month recovery timeline, with symptoms possibly lasting 12 months. I wholeheartedly believed—and still do—I wouldn’t be one of the unfortunate 15% of PCS patients that suffered for multiple years following injury. Then again, I was convinced I would be healed by the end of January, then by February, then March, then every month following until this day that I write where I’m still surprised how much I struggle with attention, focus, headaches, vision, nausea, speech, and light/sound sensitivities. What I experience today is NOTHING like what I’ve endured the last 8 months, but the reality is, it still impedes my ability to function like I used to. Going back is no longer the goal, because everything is different. I am different.

A New Reality

My TBI was like a forced pause in my perceived reality. What I had known to be true for the last 33 years of existence was no longer my truth. I thought I knew what struggle was from my back issues, but without the strength of my mind, I was lost—completely absorbed in a pain so debilitating, I was expelled from the sensory world, forced to retreat in a cocoon of silent darkness. From the multiple headaches in different locations and not being able to see, to the constant feeling of motion sickness, I was consumed with agony and none of the tools for coping brought relief.

The brain makes us who we are. It shapes our personality. It processes our experiences. It regulates emotions. When the function of the brain’s ability to process information is damaged, there is no deeper presence of surrender possible. I was disconnected. Deeply confused. Lost.

And yet, I looked the same on the outside. I wasn’t able to speak the words of what was happening—I couldn’t even process what was happening. It was like my tongue no longer knew what to do and the commute words had to make from my brain to verbal translation was shut down.

It was the understanding and support I received from Dr. Thomas Harding and his partner Maile that reassured me I was going to be okay. The cognitive therapy with him for the last several months has kept me sane and on a path toward healing. Support from them and my sister, Ashley, my Mom and Dad, my amazing friends, Bella, Seanna, Alex R., and Jeff, and others who were there for me when I fell off the technical grid made significant impact (Tina, Lora & Sergio, Rosita, Pancho, Jen, Vashti, Wayne & Kathy, Stef, Jenn, Laurel, Nicole, Drew, and Toby). I am also incredibly grateful for the outpouring of support I have received since returning to the digital world and those that have so generously offered love in such surprising and beautiful ways: Renae, McCall, Alex V., Jany, Caro, Diana, Maria Juliana, Renee, Michelle, Shannon, Billy, Daphne, Jared, and so many more. I have a beautiful gratitude list of over 200 people that have been so caring and kind. I appreciate each and every one of you; and as I continue my recovery, please know you made a powerful difference in helping me feel loved and supported.

A sad truth is, all in all, it has unfortunately been a lonely time, because most of it has had to be alone (even when I have had loved ones physically here helping out). It’s been riddled with fatigue, depression, pain, and deep loss. I lost the role I had served in the Biomimicry Institute, which I achieved after a decade climbing up the communications career ladder to reach. Using screens, focusing my vision and attention, and managing headaches has made it difficult to keep a schedule and be part of society in a valuable way.

Releasing the pressure to return to work and focusing on my own healing has been very difficult. When I finally accepted the reality of my injury (not as some forever destiny but for where I am in this season of life); and that there was no shortcut to recovery, I began to accept there was no going back. The journey from here, and there, would be about growing and moving forward, no longer trying to get the way I spoke before to be the same or the stature in my career back. I am fortunate to have reached a place where I can at least return to my passionate work of health coaching, because it’s something I can do now—help others heal themselves in hour increments, separated by breaks for my own continued healing.

This tragedy has given me an opportunity greater than I could have ever imagined: connecting me deeper to loved ones and stepping into a fluid sense of self, finding deeper gratitude for basic elements of living like tolerating sight and sound. Awe for the brain’s function, for the vestibular system that keeps us from falling over or vomiting in a moving world.

I knew one day I would feel grateful for this experience, and while I still have very challenging days, I am starting to have more good days and that brings a deeper appreciation for life I never knew was possible. Once again, it was love that showed the way. Stronger than ever, I fully realized that to Heal with Amore is to live a life of Love—love for oneself in acceptance and work toward healing, and the ability to receive love in times of need. This energy produces a ripple effect—love is spread, and there’s only gratitude to take from that.

Adapting to a Damaged Brain

To have thoughts flow is something I never thought I would be so grateful for—or being able to talk to text as I have in writing this article. Living in a technology-ridden world made life easier before, but with a brain injury, it can make things very difficult and isolating. Messages to loved ones went from text to audio, and I have hundreds of messages that mark the progression of halted, slow speech to today’s evolution. Gone were the days of wondering about something and asking Google. In the depths of pain, or boredom, I couldn’t be distracted by a story (except for the time Vashti recorded herself reading a book on a tape player at a speed I could actually follow—one of the most thoughtful gifts I received during this time).

But before Vashti’s book, the first piece of media I was able to consume was an audiobook called The Concussion Repair Manual by Dr. Dan Engle. He spoke slowly and clearly, sharing healing modalities that I would integrate, because he himself had suffered from a concussion and understood the difficulties. I learned from his offerings, tried different supplements and activities. I used tools from my own repertoire like meditation, yoga, food as medicine, breathwork, and affirmations—which at times felt like they weren't helping because the healing progression was so slow, but actually were deeply powerful in healing over time. I had help in navigating emotional expression and release and was able to find great benefits from acupuncture. Eventually I was able to listen to classical music and found peace outside of silence. Oh sweet music and the ability to hear sound… how I never knew I was taking this for granted.

As time went on and I built a better capacity for sound, I was able to listen to movies or tv shows I had seen before. No new information was tolerable, but at least I found solace in familiar stories. I was tasked with singing to spark memory and improve the cadence of my speech and tone. While I still struggle with halted speech, sometimes I get in a flow and the thoughts come out almost normally—not reliant on every single word being pulled from a darkness, disconnected and disjointed. It gives me hope and reassurance my brain is healing. Damage can be repaired.

I’ve gone from not being able to leave my home to riding a bicycle in town. The motion sickness is improving, and one day I’ll be able to ride in and safely drive a car again, work on a screen for long hours, and quickly process information. Each week I see progress and continue to strengthen my skills of patience and determination. It has taken hard work, and admittedly it’s impossible to capture everything here as I will be processing for years to come. Daily brain games, graded exposure to activity, a patience so necessary and difficult—I will continue to work hard as I redesign my new life, prioritizing connection and love, experiences shared with others that makes all the pain in life worthwhile.

I have deep gratitude for renewing a relationship with my Dad, who became one of my strongest allies in this journey in helping me daily for the prescribed brain games and practices in conversation. It’s been a beautiful gift in these trials and tribulation and a major adaptation to the dynamics of my life moving forward.

In adapting to the damage and healing process, I have recognized many more things I took for granted before that I am grateful for every day now, like turning my head without getting sick. Being able to cry without making the pain worse. Looking at a text message, a photo, or a video. Watching a car drive by without being shut down. Listening to a bird sing or a dog bark without being crumbling. The ability to go for a walk or not wear sensory canceling gear all the time, even inside. Reading a book. Being with a friend. Preparing food for myself. Going to a grocery store. Talking. Thinking. To feel anything—and to feel passion.

I remember the first time I enjoyed a sensation after weeks of agony. I had my sunglasses on with noise canceling headphones sitting in my living room. I drank a sip of bubbly water and let it be still in my mouth, hearing and feeling the bubbles fizz like a surround sound orchestra. It was soothing, pleasant. A point where I knew the symptoms would not get worse from there.

Privileged Adversity

A roller coaster ride: that’s what the urgent care doctor said, but I never could have fathomed what that actually meant. The most dramatic ride with the most terrible deep lows, radical drops and confused stagnant points back to submerged twists and turns… until after months of cycles progressing from 30 seconds to days of higher highs and less low lows, eventually I got to a place where there were moments of feeling okay—and even good. And as terrible as this has been, I am still one of the fortunate ones.

I am also lucky to be safe, and my home safe, because during this recovery time my home Maui experienced the most tragic wildfires, which scorched the beloved town of Lahaina where we have lost hundreds of people. And on the same day of that fire, a separate fire ignited that threatened my home in Kihei—but I was fortunate to be far enough from harm’s way and only had to deal with the psychological and physiological effects that kind of fear can initiate in the human body—albeit made more difficult without the same processing ability as before the brain injury. It will take years for the island to recover, years for people to grieve, and some will never have a decent livelihood again. And yet, I am one of the fortunate ones.

My first moment of feeling okay was May 25, and the first time I felt good was June 15. Since then, I have had many moments of good and consecutive progress. Beginning to be reliable, make plans, help and hold space for others—the fires both stunted and expedited the life-altering reality I currently live in. I have finally gotten to a place where I don't need to wait to help others. I have ways I can offer support now, and this is why I have dedicated my energy and passion to heal with amore—I’ve been to my own depths and was able to find breath of life again, able to reignite the healing energy of love.

During this recovery, I have used a term to make sense of my suffering: Privileged Adversity. I believe it to be the presence of one or more difficult, life-altering situations that offer a complete breakdown of one’s normal functioning, inducing suffering and trauma, which gives an individual the choice to rebuild a better version of themselves, because they are given access to resources, time and support that enable them to endure and overcome. A back injury and years of chronic pain offers enlightenment through mind-body focused healing over a life sentence of prescription pain medication and addiction. A blow to the back of the head that leads to a traumatic brain injury allows for time off work without losing safety of a home, able to have loved ones fly in to support for months, a living situation on a sacred land that offers optimal healing, and access to medical care and knowledge of approaches to healing. A fire that takes the lives of hundreds without notice, yet only a few miles away being in a different place at a different time, remaining safe.

This privileged adversity has made the difference between my recovery and succumbing to a life incapable of rebuilding.

Lessons Learned

The number one lesson is the capacity for love. As with all my life-altering experiences, love shines brightest as the ultimate healing tool. Love is the medicine and the mechanism for all else to support health and wellness. It is through this renewed lesson that I strengthen my mission and align with my purpose: to live a life of love.

After I survived years of chronic pain from a back injury and found a ‘bonus life,’ I thought my suffering had hit a peak, but really it meant I was more equipped than most to handle something like this. I have been completely present these 230 days since January 13th—each day offering lessons in mindfulness, gratitude, empathy, and true healing approaches.

Healing can’t be forced. This has been a major lesson—along with how rest is as important as work. I’ve had to learn time and time again to release pressure and expectations, a schedule for healing I had set for myself. It’s just not how brain healing works. It is a fine line to walk for progress and pushing forward that aligns with rest and recovery, which I didn't really learn until July. Wanting to be independent, but needing the support of others—it has been an arduous journey to say the least.

And all the while, I have been very focused on trying to monitor my emotional experience, working to express in a healthy way and reflecting inward. Journaling, tracking moods and experiences on a calendar to find stability. I’ve wanted to ensure I do not get trapped in a chronic state of pain, that my brain not learn these symptoms and confuse them as a permanent reality (because in truth, there is no such thing as a permanent reality). It has been important—and difficult—to stay mindful of the healing process, Mind-Body Syndrome tendencies, and address post-traumatic stress while struggling with processing the present moment. In June, I began to have capacity to speed up to the present and started processing all that has happened.

I never realized speaking and having words come out was a luxury. A privilege. A gift not to be taken for granted. Until now.

I never understood before the true importance of one’s head safety. A hard enough hit and the person you were before can be completely transformed.

During this time, I also learned that when abruptly disconnected from social media, email and all things digital, it becomes clear who your people are—the ones that notice your absence and care enough to check in. Or when you come back online, those that show up better late than never. And—it’s okay to see this line and accept everyone where they’re at. It doesn’t make them unworthy of love, but it does allow insight into who may be better served in investing more of your energy in. That is the real gift of clarity.

It may sound harsh, but I’ve learned the world goes on without us. And, a support system is everything. Invisible trauma can keep a person from standing out—and also can make them feel unseen, misunderstood, and forgotten.

We know very little about brain injury as a collective society and support is difficult to obtain without privileged resources. I align with the belief that personality is a field of forces, and the brain’s central nervous system functions like a translator, a facilitator if you will, for relaying the expression of an individual’s unique, complicated experience in this deeply interconnected existence on this physical plain. This is why an individual’s experience is extraordinary—one-of-a-kind. I stand strong in knowing I have no idea what someone else could be going through, and that is why it’s always best practice to assume the best intention. Everyone experiences the world differently, has had different things happen to them, and therefore has a unique perspective. Empathy, compassion and patience are master skills.

As deep as I’ve gone in trying to understand the functioning of the brain, there is still so much to be learned. Sensory information is processed in the brain in a truly immaculate way. Neurons that fire together wire together, and if they are disrupted, that connection breaks. It’s not always about healing and repairing—it can be about relearning. In the case of my speech, at first I thought one day I would just sound like me again. But really, it’s not about going back—it’s been about healing forward and relearning how to communicate, which is why I sound different. It may take years to play with an expanded vocal range, but it’s okay. It’s a reality I accept, because I am capable.

Beyond these beautiful lessons, I feel hope in recognizing that given the right nutrients, sleep, physical movement, and loving support, the body is capable of extraordinary healing.

A Path Forward

Losing the sense of who I am in a total confusion of existence is the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. Disconnected from love, purpose, and all sense of time and space can leave a person with nothing to hold on to, even with the firmest faith. A lot of things I cared so much about don’t matter at all anymore. I am acutely aware of how much unnecessary stress is deeply embedded in our society. And in this path forward, I recognize that kind of stress on the body and mind can make everything worse. Sometimes we push through and don’t stop until we’re forced to from injury, illness, losing loved ones or the safety of one’s home, or some other traumatic and terrible thing. The path forward for me involves slowing down and being mindful of the intricate beauties in life, for nothing is certain.

Eventually I learned to not apologize for what I could not do and instead to be proud of what I could.

I am different. Everything is different. And I take this transformation to create purpose in helping others who may not have someone like Dr. Harding or a friend that understands or family that supports in the way needed. I want to help the caregivers of others, because there’s no way to understand what their loved ones are going through or how being a caregiver needs certain support as well. I want to help you heal yourself, or at the very least find peace on your journey, whatever your story and situation may be.

I may be able to understand where you’ve been, but for sure I will understand that I don't understand what it’s like for you. That’s what I would like to hear from you, because in this wisdom of your unique experience is hidden the curated healing tools waiting to be realized. I had to find the answers for myself, but it could have been less painful if I had the missing piece to my healing squad—someone to help me navigate it firsthand, who didn’t have their own emotions about my experience and had a full-range perspective of the myriad of tools available to try.

Thank you for reading my story. It has been most cathartic to write, and a vulnerable act of service to share. May you find hope, love, peace, and continued healing of your own in this moment and many more to come.