Reflections on Eleven Years

Sunday morning, and I'm taking a rare victory lap. I've grown rather fond of my new therapist over the last couple of weeks. Like me, and perhaps you, she is a brain injury survivor.

She's already identified a pattern that needs an overhaul. I am quite critical of myself. In fact, I can be brutal to... well, me. She is encouraging me to practice more self care, and more self compassion. Both are difficult for me.

Want to join me on a victory lap? I'd love some company.

Eleven years ago today...

Facebook Memories has been a source of many trips down memory lane. Having an external memory has its advantages. Goodness knows my own memory... well, it’s not the best.

Today, I was reminded again of a precious day eleven years ago that I hope to never forget – the day of my first-ever keynote presentation – October 27, 2013.

“It was a cold and blustery late October day,” said the Winnie the Pooh narrator who dwells within me. Then again, it’s almost always cold in Maine in late October.

The BIAA-Maine put Sarah and me up at a local hotel in Portland the night before. It was a great room with a view of Maine Medical. I watched an occasional helicopter land, saying a quiet prayer for whoever needed to be flown to a hospital.

No sleep was to be found that night. I was excited and terrified at the same time. Excited because I had found a new purpose in my newly brain-injured life – helping others.

But oh boy, I was so very terrified.

I had never been a public speaker before my injury. Not even close. Sure, I was outgoing, but that’s a far cry from standing in front of a podium with hundreds of eyes on you.

My mom and dad were driving over from New Hampshire to hear me – only adding to the fear.

What if I screwed up? What if I lost my words? What if my ability to speak evaporated? That was a legitimate fear as I was still in a time when speech often failed me. In fact, speaking challenges still haunt me to this day.

What if, what if, what if…

I remember pacing nervously that morning. I didn’t want to shake any hands, as my dripping palms would have revealed my abject terror.

Never one to read prepared speeches, I had a list of talking points to guide me at the podium, reminders of things I wanted to share.

Looking down, I saw Sarah, Mom, and Dad in the front row. Though I don’t remember for certain, Sarah was most likely giving me a not-so-subtle thumbs-up, using mental telepathy, telling me that I could do it.

I will be forever grateful that Mom and Dad were there to see the beginning of my advocacy work. Their loss is profound beyond words. I miss them both dearly.

After an embarrassingly kind introduction, it was time to share my experience. My hands gripped the podium, lest my knees give out. I remember struggling to find my groove for the first few minutes.

And then it happened. The fear left me. I was helping people understand the challenges that many of us in the brain injury community face. In attendance were doctors, nurses, medical professionals, family members, and my beloved survivor brothers and sisters.

At one point, looking down at my mom, I saw her eyes filled with tears. For a couple of years, Sarah and I had hidden the depth of our struggles from almost everyone close to us, including family. It was our own private journey through pain.

An hour later, it was over. A couple hundred attendees stood, applauding.

There is no manual for advocating. I learned that day that one does not simply walk out of an auditorium. A couple dozen people, almost all survivors, wanted to talk to me, to tell me what had happened to them. It was profoundly emotional. And it has happened at every conference since.

So much has happened in the years since that day.

My focus has shifted as Sarah and I regularly ask ourselves how we can reach the largest number of survivors effectively.

Our Facebook community reaches over 500,000 people every month; some months, several million people see Hope content. Stunning numbers. Our support group communities continue to grow, sacred spaces for others who share our fate to heal.

I’ve always said that if I can make one life easier, it’s all worth it. But time, fate, circumstances, and a lot of work have seen that many lives have been helped.

We continue to learn, to grow, to evolve. This past week, we presented as a couple, a first-ever experience. And it looks like I'll be keynoting next spring at another statewide conference.

It still feels surreal, you know. Whose life am I living? My morning meditation today spoke of serving others. I smiled when I read it. This past week, while presenting in Maine, I quoted St. Francis: "It is better to give than to receive."

And to think that it all started over a decade ago when DJ and I met by “accident.”

~David