The Anniversary That Never Left

It Still Happened

I’m big on anniversaries. Timelines in my life matter. I realize that’s not the case for everyone, and that’s okay. In fact, that’s part of the beauty of life. The things that carry weight for me might not carry the same weight for someone else. Differences keep life interesting. If we all thought the same way, the world would be painfully vanilla.

But there’s a difference between seeing things differently and dismissing how someone feels.

When someone discounts my feelings simply because they don’t feel the same way… well, that’s where I take issue. My feelings matter. Yours do too. Respecting that difference is part of being human.

Before I go further, a small housekeeping note. Much of what I’m about to say will remain vague and somewhat cryptic. Certain details cannot be discussed openly for legal reasons. But the emotions that have surfaced from this event cannot be ignored, and today feels like the right time to acknowledge them.

When I wake up tomorrow, it will mark three years since my life quite literally turned upside down.

I was driving to work that morning, just a block away from my home. Out of nowhere, a driver struck my Jeep and flipped it upside down. One moment I was heading to work like any other day. The next moment, the world was inverted and nothing would ever feel quite the same again.

To this day, I don’t know if I was unconscious or for how long. What I do know is that somehow I managed to unhook my seatbelt. Using a strange hand–hand–foot–foot crawl, I worked my way toward the door. A bystander—someone who must have been sent straight from Heaven—helped drag me out onto the street.

I still think about that person.

The specifics of the accident itself aren’t something I can discuss. What I can talk about is everything that followed.

Physically, I was fortunate. It could have been much worse. I sustained a traumatic brain injury, scattered focal matter in my brain, occipital neuralgia, nerve damage in my hand and right foot, and daily migraines that seem to park themselves behind my right eye. My brain is now monitored regularly through mapping for stroke activity.

But I keep going. That’s simply my nature. Surrendering to pain has never been part of my operating system.

And yes, people remind me constantly that it could have been worse.

“Be grateful you’re not dead.”

I am grateful. Beyond grateful. I know how close the margin was.

But gratitude and struggle can exist in the same space.

I still live with the reminders every single day. Loud sounds can make my heart race. Careless drivers can send me into a spiral. Night terrors make sleep something I dread instead of welcome.

And then there’s the spiritual side of it all.

For a long time, I believed God was watching over me that day. I even went to speak with the pastor at my church about it, hoping for some sense of understanding. His response was simple and flat: maybe I was just lucky.

That conversation hit harder than he probably realized. Add in the lingering feelings about how Jake was treated during his First Holy Communion, and somewhere along the way my connection to the Catholic Church quietly slipped away.

I suppose faith, like trust, can fracture.

The larger point in all of this is simple: just because an injury isn’t immediately visible doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Just because someone survives doesn’t mean they aren’t still fighting battles every day.

I was raised to believe you shouldn’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins. These past three years have reminded me just how true that saying really is.

Because of some of the reactions I’ve experienced, I’ve drawn inward. I’ve grown quieter. There are days when a “why bother” attitude creeps into my outlook on life.

I’ll still write. These blogs remain my outlet. But I rarely share the deepest parts of how I feel anymore.

After the crash, I was required to meet with a therapist. To be fair, some of the techniques helped immensely with the brain injury and navigating work again. I only missed three weeks because of brain swelling and vision difficulties. For that, I was grateful.

But when it comes to the emotional side of things? That switch feels like it was flipped off somewhere along the road.

I’ve learned a lot about people over these past three years—their reactions, their perspectives, their ability to empathize… or not.

And that’s okay. We are all different.

But somewhere in the middle of all those differences, you lost me.

Because the truth is this:

Part of me did die that day.

But the rest of me is still here… learning how to live with what survived.