Five Minutes to Forever
It was a cold and crisp October morning—seemingly just another routine day. I woke up and packed my lunch, told my partner I loved him, and kissed my cat goodbye before heading for the door. I had no reason to expect that within five minutes of driving, my life would be completely upended.
I remember the calm routine: the mundane hum of the engine, the thought of my usual coffee order waiting for me at the local coffee shop, and the anticipation of a meeting with a client I had prepared for all week. It was going to be another busy day. I had no idea that I wouldn’t make it to that meeting.
As I approached a major intersection, everything changed in an instant. One moment, I was driving normally, and the next, I felt a violent jolt and the snap of my jaw. My car spun 90 degrees at around 40 miles per hour. Airbags deployed, and the smell of smoke filled the car. I was facing oncoming traffic, with strangers already gathered at my window asking me if I was okay and telling me that they already called the ambulance. I didn’t know if I was hurt, what had happened, or even how I had ended up there. My mind was a blur.
In the midst of the chaos, my first thought wasn’t about my health or safety—it was about my client. I need to get to my client. Somehow, amid the chaos and confusion, I managed to talk to police dispatch—thankfully, my Apple Watch had called them automatically. I remember feeling oddly detached, focused on a task that felt like the only thing that mattered. Meanwhile, the EMTs were at my window, asking if I was okay. I told them I was having a panic attack and needed to make some phone calls.
I was taken to the hospital, where my reality began to sink in. I had suffered a traumatic brain injury, a sprained wrist, and a contusion to my chest wall. The news hit me like a freight train. How did this happen? I kept asking myself. How could my life have shifted so dramatically in the span of five minutes?
The answers came slowly. I learned that another driver had run a red light, causing the crash. It didn’t seem fair. Five minutes. That’s all it took to change everything. In the blink of an eye, I had gone from being a young, vibrant social worker, passionate about helping others, to someone lying in a hospital bed wondering what would happen next. I felt as if I had lost my place in the world.
In the days, weeks, and months that followed, I found myself unraveling. The life I had built for myself—the structure, the routine, the confidence in my health and independence—was now a distant memory. I felt completely disconnected from my former self. The fear of being alone, of leaving my home, became overwhelming. The only way I could cope was by isolating myself. I stopped reaching out to family and friends. I stopped participating in hobbies that once brought me joy. I stopped taking care of myself. I wasn’t living. I was just surviving.
Soon after, grief began to settle in. But it wasn’t the grief of losing someone—at least, not in the way people usually talk about grief. This was a different kind of loss. I was grieving my old self—the person I was before the accident. The routines, the confidence, the plans, and the future I thought was certain. I realized that grief isn’t only tied to death. It's about the loss of who you thought you were, of the life you expected to live. It’s the grief of losing the ability to be the person you once were, even if you’re still physically alive.
I began to grieve the loss of independence—the ability to walk into a room and feel at ease, to engage in conversation without forgetting the point I was trying to make, or to finish a task without overwhelming exhaustion setting in. The loss of normalcy was more devastating than I could have imagined. I didn’t just miss my physical health; I missed my mental clarity, my ability to handle stress, to multitask, and to move through life with ease.
But what was harder than the physical and cognitive challenges was the sense of being misunderstood—by others and, at times, by myself. People would tell me, “You’ll get back to normal soon,” or “It’ll just take time.” But it wasn’t that simple. The grief of knowing that I would never return to the life I knew before—that who I was before the accident was gone forever—was a grief that cut deeper than any physical wound. It was a non-death-related grief. The mourning of a life that no longer existed, of potential that had been robbed, of dreams deferred.
I couldn’t just return to my old life. I had to relearn how to function in a world that felt unfamiliar and unforgiving. Navigating a life with traumatic brain injury was a journey I wasn’t prepared for. Simple tasks became mountains, and I had to rebuild every part of myself: physically, emotionally, and mentally. But the most difficult part of all was finding the right support—a network that truly understood the complexities of TBI, beyond the medical appointments and checklists.
After countless hours of reading articles and searching for answers, I found myself at my first TBI support group. The experience was overwhelming, but there was also a deep sense of relief. For the first time, I felt understood. There were others who understood the layers of frustration and confusion that came with brain injury. But even more importantly, they understood the layers of grief that came with it—the grieving of an old life, the mourning of abilities lost, and the quiet sadness of watching the world move forward while I struggled to find my place in it.
These people became my lifeline. They helped me remember that while TBI had stolen so much from me, it hadn’t stolen my ability to rebuild a new life. Recovery wasn’t linear—it wasn’t just about healing my body but also my mind and soul. It was about finding new ways to cope with the things I had taken for granted. It was about learning to live with the cognitive challenges, the fatigue, and the emotional rollercoaster that came with TBI. And it was about finding the right community—one that saw me for who I was, not just my injury.
I started with small steps. I reconnected with family and friends, not all at once but in bits and pieces. I allowed myself to feel vulnerable and accept help. I began exploring new ways to cope with anxiety, like mindfulness and journaling, things I never would have considered before. It was during these quiet moments of reflection that I began to rebuild—not just my physical strength, but my sense of self.
Through all of this, I began to realize that grief doesn’t only come from loss of life—it’s tied to all the things we once believed would always be there. The grief of losing the person I was before the accident shaped the way I now look at the world. I have learned to appreciate the small victories—the days when I got out of bed, the days when I didn’t feel like a patient, but a person again. I discovered the importance of slowing down, of listening to my body, and most importantly, of practicing self-compassion.
But it wasn’t just about recovery. It was about reintegration. It was about relearning how to connect with the world, to find a new sense of purpose, and to accept that my life would be different. But that difference didn’t have to be something to fear. It was simply a new version of me.
In time, I came to understand that the person I was before the accident wasn’t the person I would be after. I had changed, and I would continue to change. But that wasn’t a bad thing. I had a deeper understanding of my resilience, my vulnerability, and the need for connection. The road ahead was uncertain, but I had learned to navigate life’s interruptions, one small step at a time.
The morning of the accident still lingers in my memory—the routine, the normalcy, the anticipation of what lay ahead. But now, I see that day differently. It was the day my life was interrupted. But it was also the day I learned how to truly live, despite the chaos. My journey wasn’t over; it had simply taken a new direction. As I continue to relearn, rebuild, and find my place in a world that feels new, I carry with me a renewed sense of hope, resilience, and the quiet understanding that no matter how long it takes, I can create a life worth living again.
