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Life After Brain Injury - A Changing Perspective

I took a ride this morning. And while I rode, I let my mind wander wherever it wanted to. It was one of those peaceful morning rides. The breeze was gentle, drivers gave me wide berth, the sun was out, and my music played on and on.

With no forethought or planning, I found myself at this spot, the corner of Granite and Main. Such a Hollywood, New Hampshire sounding address. "I'll meet you at the corner of Granite and Main," said the narrator in my head, only with a deep New Hampshire drawl.

Fifteen and a half years ago, this was my own personal Ground Zero. DJ and I met on November 11, 2010, at this same corner. He didn't awaken that day planning on t boning a cyclist, but then again, who does? It's never been on my to do list.

I stopped for a few minutes, watching cars pass by.

There was no sadness.
There was no sense of loss.
There was no melancholy.

Just deep thought, the type of thinking my dad would call "wool gathering." Man, oh man, I miss that guy.

Clipping back in, I continued my ride. More miles, more wool gathered. And in one of those unexpected moments that you can't script, I realized that I was grateful for being hit that day.

Stay with me on this one, okay?

I shun pain. I am certainly not a fan of MVAs. But it's hard not to be grateful for all that is, that never would have been had it not been for the crash.

There would be no BIHN, a worldwide community that serves tens of thousands of people every year.

There would be no ripple effect of hope that offers others hope.

Many of my closest friends would not be in my life.

A sense of purpose would be missing.

The joy found in watching others find their way would be missing.

So much good has come out of that day.

I continued my ride, and my pile of wool kept getting bigger. I thought about the early years. In a word, they sucked. By far, the toughest times Sarah and I ever experienced. But we are each stronger because of it.

If by some magic I could reach back in time to tell my newly injured self some things, I'd have a lot to say.

"It won't always suck. It may feel like it, but it won't always suck," I'd say to, well... me. "Those PTSD nightmares, the ones that haunt you a dozen times a month, or more, they will mostly go away. But it's going to take a lot of time."

But I'm not done with me yet!

"You are going to meet the most amazing people, people you will come to love, respect, and call your friends," I would say to 2010 me. "It's not going to be easy. You are going to want to give up. In fact, you will want to quit life on more than one occasion. But you are strong. Stronger than you realize, stronger than you think. You will never be who you were. Many parts of you will simply cease to be, but you'll emerge as a better version of yourself."

I arrived home a few miles later, tired and profoundly at peace. I may reach out to the young man I met that day. He was a sixteen year old newly licensed driver at the time. Today he's in his thirties.

And this older version of me... how am I doing these days?

Seems I'm aging well. My cycling app, Strava, let me know that today was my "fastest 20K ride of 2026."

Not bad for 64.

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