From Border Force To Brain Injury: Rebuilding A Life

Before April 7th, 2018, I had what I would describe as a settled, secure, and purposeful life. I was working with the Australian Border Force at the APS6 level, a senior role that required independent thinking, leadership, and accountability. I wrote operational plans, directed officers in the field, and was trusted to make decisions in complex environments. I had a career. I had structure. I had certainty about who I was and where I was going.

And then, in a single moment, all of that disappeared. On that day, I was out cycling on a public road when I collided with a car and sustained a severe diffuse axonal traumatic brain injury. I have no memory of the accident itself. What I do remember is waking up from an induced coma in Flinders Hospital with no understanding of where I was, what had happened, or even who I was meant to be in that moment.  

 I remember feeling overwhelmingly hot, confused, and terrified. I was trying to pull tubes and sensors off my body, not understanding they were keeping me alive.

That was the beginning. 

What followed was not simply recovery. It was the loss of a life and the slow, uncertain construction of a new one.

In those early days, everything was disorienting. Brain injury is invisible in many ways. People see you awake, talking, and breathing, and they assume you are okay. But inside, nothing works the way it once did. I could not process what was happening around me. I could not organize my thoughts or plan even the simplest things. There was fear, confusion, and a growing sense that something was very wrong, but no real ability to fully understand it.

Then I was transferred to the Brain Injury Rehabilitation Unit at Hampstead, and that became another major turning point in my journey.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon before a public holiday. There were no specialists available to speak with me for several days. I was placed in a secure ward with anti escape measures in place. I did not understand why. I did not understand what I had become.

Those first few days were the lowest point of my life.

I felt imprisoned. I felt abandoned. I felt like I had been removed from my own life and placed somewhere I did not belong, with no explanation and no control.

For my wife Diane, things were not much easier. Diane lives with her own disability, and simply getting from Flagstaff Hill to Hampstead was incredibly difficult. Every visit required enormous effort and often depended on taxis. What should have been a time of support and connection became another layer of stress for both of us.

As time passed, the reality of my situation became clearer. I could not drive for three months, and even basic independence was taken away. I tried to focus on getting back to work because work had become my identity and my anchor.

Then came another defining moment.

I was told by my supervisor, with my service planner present, that I would no longer be given operational or supervisory duties again. In that moment, something inside me broke. It was not simply the loss of a role. It was the loss of purpose, identity, and the future I thought I had built.

That was when depression began to take hold.

At first, I denied it. My family could see it long before I could. Over time, my motivation faded. My confidence disappeared. The structure that had once defined my life was gone, and nothing arrived to replace it.

The effects did not stop there. My injury impacted my marriage, my relationships, and my sense of self worth. I questioned my decisions daily. I questioned whether I was a good husband. I questioned whether I was capable at all.

This is the reality of severe brain injury.

It does not end when you leave the hospital. It does not resolve within a few months. It is ongoing. It evolves. In many ways, it stays with you for life.

Amid all of this, there were supports that made an enormous difference. One of the most important decisions made during that time was not mine. It was Diane’s.

She had the foresight to contact legal professionals very early on. That decision was essential. Without early legal advice, our financial security would have been at serious risk. When everything else feels uncertain, that kind of stability matters more than I can fully describe.

It is something I strongly believe every family facing catastrophic injury needs to understand. Early professional legal advice is not optional. It is critical.

I also want to speak honestly about the role of the Lifetime Support Authority because their work became part of my journey from those earliest days onward.

My initial contact with the LSA, even while I was still in hospital, was positive. But it was after I returned home that the real impact became clear. The service planners who worked with me during those first two years were exceptional.

They listened.

And I do not just mean they heard me. I mean they genuinely listened.

At a time when I felt lost, uncertain, and often dismissed elsewhere, having someone take the time to truly understand my situation was invaluable. They helped me navigate systems I simply could not process on my own. They provided structure where I had none. Most importantly, they gave me a sense that I was not alone.

That support was not simply helpful. It was essential.

But if this conversation is going to have real value, then I also need to speak honestly about what did not work.

Over time, as I transitioned into what is now considered the “Living Life” phase and was effectively classified as independent, that level of contact reduced significantly. And with that reduction came a noticeable gap.

Recovery from brain injury does not stop when someone appears independent. In many ways, that is when entirely new challenges begin to emerge. Motivation declines. Mental health deteriorates. Isolation increases.

I experienced all of that myself. After the consistent contact with my service planners ended, I found it increasingly difficult to stay engaged. Depression deepened, particularly after the loss of my dog in 2024, which had a significant emotional impact on me.

This is where I believe there is an opportunity to do better.

Even something as simple as structured ongoing check ins, perhaps once a year, could make a meaningful difference for people like me. Independence does not mean recovery is complete. It simply means the struggle looks different.

If there are a few things I would want people to take away from my story, they would be these.

First, the impact of severe brain injury is profound and often invisible. A person can look physically recovered while internally dealing with cognitive, emotional, and psychological challenges every single day.

Second, the loss is not just physical. It is the loss of identity, purpose, confidence, and certainty. And those losses affect entire families, not just the injured person.

Third, early legal support matters enormously. Families need guidance immediately because those early decisions can define long term stability.

And finally, consistent human support cannot be overstated. The service planners who worked with me during those early years made a real difference in my life. Maintaining that connection over time, even at a lower level, could significantly improve long term outcomes for people living with severe brain injury.

Today, I am still on that journey.

With the support of the LSA, I have begun to recognize my need for ongoing professional help, and I have taken steps to seek that support. I have also tried to give back through participation in service planner recruitment panels and volunteer work with the Participant Reference Group.

And now, I am beginning to look for meaningful employment again, not to return to who I was before my injury, but to build something new. Something that fits the person I am now.

I am not the same person I was before April 7th, 2018. That is something I have had to come to terms with.

But I am still here.

Still trying.

Still adapting.

And with the right support, ongoing, consistent, and human, people like me can continue moving forward. Not back to what once was, but toward something that still has value, purpose, and dignity

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More About Mark

My name is Mark Robson, and I’m grateful for the chance to introduce myself as part of the brain injury community. I was born in Nottingham, England, and in 2005 I moved with my family to Adelaide, South Australia, to begin a new chapter in our lives.

I married my wife, Diane, in 1996, and together we have built a life centred on love, loyalty, and our two children, Zak and Abigail.

Family has always been at the heart of who I am. Over the years, we have faced our share of challenges, including Diane living with Multiple Sclerosis, and those experiences have taught me a great deal about patience, compassion, and the value of support from others who truly understand.

Before my injury, I lived a very active life and took pride in cycling, natural bodybuilding, and my career with the Australian Border Force. Those parts of my life shaped who I was, but my journey since brain injury has taught me even more about identity, adaptation, and finding strength in different ways.

In April 2018, my life changed in an instant when I was involved in a cycling accident that left me with a severe traumatic brain injury and other serious injuries. Since then, I have been on a long and often difficult journey of adjustment, learning to understand the changes in myself and to rebuild my life in ways I never expected.

With the support of my family, friends, and the Life Support Authority, I have slowly learned to adapt and to accept the person I am today. Being part of a community that understands the challenges of brain injury means a great deal to me, and I hope that by sharing my story I can connect with others, offer encouragement, and continue moving forward with hope, dignity, and purpose.