I Am Not the Injury… Except When I Am

I can fake normal pretty well now. After 15 years, I’ve learned how to hold a conversation that sounds like me. Most of the time, it’s a blend — Shannon mixed with the TBI. Sometimes, the TBI takes over completely. And every once in a blue moon, it’s just me. In those rare moments, I almost believe I’m still whole.

But that illusion shatters the moment pain walks in.

It all shifts the moment something stings a little too deeply — a reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I’ll never get back. Usually, it comes when I’m around people I love. Watching them live dreams that once belonged to me. The mission I planned. The college life I expected. The love, the marriage, the children, the travel, the progression. I want all of it for them. I really do. But no amount of love for them can silence the ache in my chest when I remember it was supposed to be mine, too.

And that’s when it happens.

Dissociation.

Only this time, it's not me stepping away from the TBI. It’s the TBI taking over. I shut down. Shannon — the real me — runs to a corner of my mind and stares at the wall. She hides. She vanishes. And the brain injury takes the wheel.

Sometimes I lash out — get sharp, angry. Sometimes I shrink down and disappear. Either way, the one behind my eyes in those moments is not me. It's the scrambled neurons and the fractured wires. It’s not a person. It’s just pain.

And with it comes that familiar, vicious voice:
“You’re not even human anymore.”
“Everything you do is an act.”
“You’re an imposter.”

When I try to do something normal — something light or normal, like putting my hair in braids — the voice hisses again: “You’re pretending. You don’t belong in this world anymore. You’re just a broken brain trying to wear a costume.”

That’s what imposter syndrome looks like when you’ve lived through a TBI. It’s not just self-doubt. It’s self-erasure. It’s watching yourself vanish and trying to pretend you're still here. It’s begging to be seen as human when you can’t even feel human.

If you’ve ever felt this way — if you’ve ever felt like your pain has pushed you out of your own life — I see you.

And if you’re caring for someone who lives in that gap between identity and injury, please know: it’s not just sadness or grief. It’s a full-body, full-soul effort to stay here. To stay real. To keep trying.

We are not our injuries. But some days, our injuries speak louder than we can.

(I'm finally going through old drafts and reworking them, adding new insights and posting them, so expect quite a few for the next little while).

Abandonment Does Not Define Your Worth

 Since my accident, I have felt completely worthless. I have been shamed and disgraced. I was discarded from friend groups that wouldn’t be friends if it weren’t for me. My best friends replaced me. The first boy I ever loved told me I was a threat to society. I was used, abandoned, forgotten. For fifteen years, this has shaped how I see myself: irrelevant, replaceable, like my existence is a net negative—or at best, a big fat zero. Even though, for the first sixteen years of my life, all I ever did was make the people around me feel better.

I recently asked a friend why he loved me—why I mattered to him. He told me it was because I have infinite worth. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I needed more than just “infinite worth.” I wanted to know why I mattered to him. I wanted him to tell me how I helped him, or shaped him, why/how I am unique and irreplaceable to him.

Then my mom gave me an analogy that provided another perspective. She said our time on Earth is like a big puzzle. Without even one piece, the puzzle isn’t complete. That means every person is irreplaceable—not because of what they do, but simply because they belong. Even though that analogy sounds great, the abandonment, the pain, the heartache has attacked my internal worth for the last fifteen years. It didn’t affect me much on a personal level. But it did sound like a great illustrator to help you see what I’m trying to explain—and maybe it can begin to shift my mindset, even though that means rewiring a hard fifteen years.

Part of my problem has been that I didn’t have the right language for this. Semantics really is a big deal after TBI—and my speech therapist will attest to that! Once I was able to separate worth and value, things began to shift.

My worth is infinite, inherent, and unearned. It doesn’t change whether I’m having a good day or a terrible one. It doesn’t depend on what anyone else thinks or how many people show up for me. Worth is who I am as a child of God—equal to everyone else, neither better nor worse.

Value, on the other hand, can often feel transactional. It’s how we see the effect we have on others and the world around us. That value exists whether or not someone else recognizes it—but our ability to feel that value is often tied to whether they reflect it back to us. Our perception of value is what’s fragile and fleeting. Heavenly Father sees the whole picture—the eternal perspective—and so He can see our full value, even when we can’t.

I still don’t feel valued or appreciated. The loneliness of feeling irrelevant and unseen has left me with zero value in my own eyes. But I’ve finally been able to begin to understand that I still have worth, even though I don’t feel valued or appreciated. I’m trying to embrace it when someone tells me I make a difference, when someone shows they see me.

If you’re struggling with worth, remember that your worth is no different than anyone else’s.
If you’re struggling with value, try to remember that your value doesn’t disappear just because others don’t reflect it back to you. It’s not about productivity or recognition. It’s about the impact you make, even when you can’t see it.
And if you’ve been like me for the last fifteen years, maybe just knowing there’s a difference between worth and value might help. I hope so.

The Coveted Virtue of Hope

 Hope has always felt like something just beyond my grasp—like a distant star I can see but never quite reach. I want it. I crave it. I covet it. But more often than not, it slips through my fingers, leaving me in the dark, clutching at shadows.

And the hard truth? I rarely feel worthy of hope. It’s not that I don’t know what it looks like—I've seen it in others, glowing quietly in their eyes, pulling them forward. But for me, it flickers only when I feel like I matter. When someone sees me, values me, chooses to stay.

That doesn’t happen often. Or maybe it does and I just struggle to believe it.

I know this might make me sound dependent or needy—words I’ve spent years trying to run from. But I’m not writing this to convince you of my strength. I’m writing this because I need something that I can’t create alone. I need someone. Maybe not forever. But someone—anyone—who is willing to show up, even briefly, and remind me that I matter.

Because even fleeting moments of worth can echo louder and longer than the silence of being alone.

This isn’t a cry for attention—it’s a quiet, honest plea for connection. Not from any one specific person, but from the people in my life who might read this and feel something stir. If that’s you, then maybe this is for you.

I wish I could say I’m strong on my own. But I’m not. Not always. I’m extroverted, yes—but it’s more than that. I don’t just enjoy people. I need people. I find my worth through their eyes, through their presence, through knowing that someone wants me around. And I hate that, sometimes. I wish I could fix it. But right now, I just need to be honest about it.

So I’m saying this to whoever is meant to hear it: Please don’t let me go. Don’t assume I’ll be fine if you back away. Sometimes, the smallest gesture can keep me afloat. Even if it’s not forever.

This is me, reaching out—because I still believe in the possibility of being held through the storm, even when I don’t believe in much else.

So I’ll say it again, not for drama, but for truth: I covet the virtue of hope. And I’m asking—can you help me find it?

Covenantal Love

        I have written many times regarding the insurmountable nature of trauma that our body holds onto. Yet, for those who have not experienced such trauma, it continues to appear incomprehensible. While I could attempt to explain myself or I could attempt to prove that my feelings are justified, I have learned that is a losing battle. Talking about hardships and struggles doesn’t get you anywhere (despite what the victim narrative of the current world would have you believe). Therefore, I will not be rehearsing all the painstakingly agonizing heartbreaks I have endured over the past week, few months, or even years. Instead, today I wish to express the relationship I have had with the Atonement of my Lord, Jesus Christ over the last 15 years.

            Some years ago, as I was desperately crying, in my mother’s loving nature she expressed that she wished that she could take my pain from me. My immediate thought was, “absolutely no, you would not, not if you had a clue what this feels like.” However, because of my deep, thoughtful nature as I contemplated more on this interaction, I began to consider that Jesus did know how painful it would be. Yet not only did He take on that one instance, He took on every instance, for everyone. Indeed, 1 Nephi 21:16 says “I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.” And He did it willingly!

           He did it for the same reason my mom expressed her desire, out of pure love. Love that transcends pain; love that supersedes inadequacy; love that replaces fear with faith; love that turns anxiety into comfort; love that is whole, perfect, and infinite because of Jesus Christ. Since I had that realization, I have seen the sacrament differently. Rather than simply a renewal of covenants or reviewing the week and observing where I need to do better, I take it as an honor to be able to take His name upon me, because He engraved my name upon Him! I choose how much I hold His name to mine every day, but He already chose me.

            Over the years, after the heartaches, the mood swings, the tears, the minor rejoicings, the tug of wars, the dissociations, the post-traumatic-stress attacks, etc. I have concluded that I am engraved on far more than the palm of His hand. He engraved my entire soul, not just my afflictions, but everything into part of HIS. In the garden of Gethsemane, in a way that no human being will ever be able to comprehend, Jesus Christ went through and suffered for each and everyone of God’s children, individually. In that garden, He took my soul and allowed it to become a part of His soul. This further allows Him to be my advocate with full, 100% empathy and understanding. Therefore, there is nothing that I go through that He does not understand. He understands not only from an objective perspective, but also from my personal perspective. He is there to hear every uttered plea, every silent prayer, and even moments when words won’t come. He sees us in our heartache. He feels our frustration. He cries with us. Even in the moments I have felt the most alone – the moments I can’t even feel my Heavenly Family - I still cry out in desperation. I know He hears, even though nothing changes. Nothing changes because of a higher, more perfect plan. Yet I still know He hears because He loves us with the love that transcends pain; love that supersedes inadequacy; love that replaces fear with faith; love that turns anxiety into comfort; love that is whole, perfect, and infinite, because of Jesus Christ. And I have felt that love – not often, but enough to fight with vigor to return to feel that love every single second of eternity.

            That is not all. The first great commandment is to love God with all our hearts, souls, strength and mind. This is by no accident. Without full purpose of all we have to love God, everything else can fall by the wayside. Most importantly, we lose sight of the Love that the Godhead has for us. We become distracted by things of this world and take our eyes off Him as did Peter when he walked on water to meet Christ. We are not faithful in the covenant we made at baptism to always remember Him and take His name upon us. He will always stay faithful to the covenant, after all, He engraved my name, and your name, into His very soul. But these are nice words that we don’t often know how to apply. So let me tell you how I have applied them.

            Repentance is a word we hear often, but for a long time, it was a dirty word to me. I have learned however, that repentance is not just about making up for mistakes I have made, it’s about turning to Jesus and saying take me into your embrace, just hold me, and help me become more like Thee. Help me love my neighbor; help me be gentler with myself; help me see what you see; help me process my emotions; help me get through this terrible thing; or simply help me, please, just help. By doing this over and over again, Jesus begins to engrave His soul into our countenance. As this occurs, despite all our flaws, mistakes, or imperfections, the covenant that we made with Christ will fill in all of those gaps at the final day of judgement. Not only will this magnificent Jesus Christ be our perfect advocate, He will also be the finisher to our perfection. When God Almighty looks to judge us at the last day, if we have stayed faithful to our covenant, Heavenly Father will not see our flaws. He will not see our mistakes, because Jesus has already covered them. Jesus is in relentless pursuit of each and everyone of us because He has already done the work. If we do what we can, by turning to Him, and choosing Him every day, we will not have to worry.

 

Cognitive Disability

 As a society, we recognize 2 types of disabilities; visible physical disabilities and intellectual disabilities. While some people who suffer a chronic TBI do end up with one of these kinds of disabilities, I do not. Yet, I do still have a disability, one that is very hard to explain. Or at least that's what I said to my speech therapist a couple weeks ago (speech therapists do more than just help with dictation). But he said, "no, it's not!" He proceeded to explain that intellect is about knowledge and cognition is about processing of that knowledge. Or in other words, I don't have a problem with information, I have a problem with processing. To prove it, I'll insert a quippy line I thought of while writing this post: I'm still sharp as a tack, but no longer quick as a whip. :) 

My understanding of processing has evolved - it has had to. Originally, I thought processing, at least in regards to this, was about understanding information. And while that is definitely a part of it, and yes, learning does take much longer and is such a strenuous effort now, that is far from all of what it means to process information. Processing also involves how you go about organizing and completing a task or project. This is key. I'll talk more about this later on. But even with these 2 explanations, I didn't feel quite satisfied that it explained everything that I experience. So, I went looking for more definitions across the internet. I came across many different definitions, such as:  the act of mentally or emotionally absorbing and making sense of what one has experienced or perceived; the act of ... making decisions and following up with appropriate action. Things started becoming clearer (especially with my dad's explanation that I'll write later on). Then, while writing this post, I realized that I knew what processing disorders are when they are associated with a single sense, such as an auditory processing disorder, a visual processing disorder, or even a sensory processing disorder! But I had yet to integrate all of these different senses (including smells, touch, taste, and just plain thinking) into my understanding of what a "cognitive processing disorder" is. 

The organizing and completing a task is the part that I think is most extreme with an injured brain. Let me illustrate by using an obvious example, but think of it applied to every aspect of life. You're making cookies. There are multiple steps. A "normal" person doesn't have to even think about these steps. But someone with a head injury not only has to think about them but will get the sequence out of order and will end up frustrated, confused, feeling stupid, and belittled. Furthermore, (my speech therapist says) we can't hold more than 1-3 tasks in our brains at a time. Someone with a head injury could, in theory, throw all the flour on the cookie sheet, preheat the oven, crack an egg on top of the flour, then get out a bowl, put sugar in the bowl, and a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon of salt, mix that up, throw that on top of the egg on top of the flour, then put some baking soda on top and then top it all off with chocolate chips before putting it in the oven to cook. Do you think cookies will come from that? This is broken processing in action.

While this example is extreme, it illustrates the disjointed way that the processing can occur in everyday activities, which is where the disability really applies. The simple, monotonous tasks like getting ready, picking things up, hanging up clothes, putting dishes away from the dishwasher, etc. It's not like I don't know how to do these things. It is because the ability to use that knowledge has been disrupted due to the broken brain. These extra difficulties cause the brain to become frustrated. When the brain is frustrated, the person understandably gets irritable and angry. Which, among other things, is why a person can seem so irate, irrational, and mean after a head injury. It takes time and a lot of work to accept that this is the way life just is (aka radical acceptance) and stop letting your brain's frustration show. It takes so many resources to do these every day simple tasks, especially while managing the fire in your brain, that in order to preserve these resources, it is far easier to avoid doing these tasks completely than waste them on stupid things that we should be able to do no sweat. 

 I'll talk about ways that my speech therapist has suggested to deal with this in a future post, but for now, I thought it was important to help others understand what I am just beginning to process. ;) 

Chaos

I’ve talked about how frustrating the invisible nature of a traumatic brain injury is before.  Today I am going to address it but in a slightly different way, one that can likely apply to many more people than just those with unseen injuries. We all have different masks that we wear in different situations. When you are meeting with your boss, you don’t want to display all of your pains and complaints; but when you are meeting with your doctor, you may very well want to do just that. This conditional expression of our feelings applies especially to mental health. Even when we appear to be doing “fine,” we may be experiencing turmoil and distress just beneath the surface.

              This prevailing sense of “I’m not okay” often comes from a feeling of complete and total internal chaos. This chaos is something that cannot be seen by others, (except the rare times that an anxiety attack emerges). But my brain, like many others, is constantly on fire, while trying to extinguish the flames of chaos.

              Something that I have studied and advocated for a long time is the chaos of your external surroundings are often a good indication of the chaos of your internal world. And one of the best things to do to restore order to the chaos inside of your mind is actually to organize something in your external world. Somehow, it actually allows your brain to sort through and organize some of the crazy thoughts or synapses firing all the time.

              So, with that in mind, you would think that my house is ALWAYS a complete mess. But, remember what I started this post with. Someone can still be in immense chaos, even if it is not seen. Therefore, my house can appear very clean sometimes, but I have no idea where things are, my drawers are a mess and I feel such a lack of control that I become incapable of doing anything at all.

              This is the place I have been in literally ALL year long. And I have been so frustrated with myself for it. I have felt worthless and stuck. So, if I ended the post here, while it may help give someone a voice, it would still feel pretty hopeless. However, last night, I received a priesthood blessing that changed everything! I was reminded that when God the Father created the Earth, He looked upon it and saw it as good. But He also saw that there would be much chaos that would descend upon the Earth. He saw that there would be a great upheaval that needed a Deliverer. So He sent His Son, Jesus Christ. Through Jesus, there was order, there was peace even amongst all of the chaos. And even among the great, miraculous, and infinite source of peace Jesus created throughout the entire universe, He will still be my individual vehicle for peace throughout the tumultuous seas inside my broken brain. In fact, that is the only way to overcome the constant chaos within me. I must pray to the Father, in Christ’s name, to help master the chaos I feel.

Finding Peace in Pain

No one can even fathom what it feels like to live my life. Everything I do, I'm constantly surrounded by triggers to my PTSD. I talk somewhat often about how pain is very relative and my "level 4" would probably kill the average person. Some words carry more weight than a ton of bricks to me whereas to others it's just any other word. Even worse, one of those specific words - abandonment - is one that not even my best friend for the longest time post accident (love you Trish) has much of a clue about because it's something I still just can't talk about. I learned that a few months ago when I mentioned something about High School graduation to her and she hadn't heard the story.... Because some things are still too painful. Heck, there are quite a few memories that I don't even have access to because my brain simply will not allow me to remember them. I still have dire aversions to situations, or strange longings that I don't understand, but no memories of situations or people. So please, do not misunderstand me in the second half of this post. I am not saying that my life is easy; I am not saying that I enjoy any part of it. However, I wouldn't trade my knowledge of this gospel for anything, especially given everything that I go through. 

I believe we each have a special "dispensation." This means that the Lord, and our Heavenly Parents have a perfect understanding of our lives - challenges, strengths, abilities, afflictions, etc. Most people's dispensations fall much closer to the "ideal" mold. Mine however, most definitely does not. My Heavenly Family know of my deep, deep desires to be better, to learn more, to take care of my body, to have a deeper relationship with them, so on and so forth.... They love that more than I comprehend. But they cry with me when I am so frustrated by my limitations. They are sad when I beat up on myself for not running faster than I have strength. Our Heavenly Parents are much closer and integrated in our lives than we fathom. Heavenly Father wants nothing more than to talk to us, to build/re-build a relationship. He knew that in order for us to grow and attain all He wants to give us, there had to be a veil. We had to face temptations, evil, and carnal desires. It hurts Him when we try to face the world on our own, refusing to ask Him for help. He always wants to help us. It may not happen the way we always want, but His desire is always there. We can't always just expect His will to happen because He respects our agency. He rarely takes away our struggles or pains, but instead He offers strength so we can face it.