Learning the Shape of the New Me

This last week was my first week back to work since the accident.

Because of a parade of goddamned doctor appointments, I was effectively working part-time, which I assumed would make the transition easier. It didn’t. The week was a struggle, just not in the way I expected.

I thought my biggest challenge would be schedule shock. My internal clock was fundamentally rewired during recovery. I’ve been going to bed around eight or nine, waking up at one in the morning, writing until near dawn, sleeping again around five, and then waking for the day at seven. That rhythm worked for writing and recovery. It felt natural. It felt right.

So the idea of waking up between four and five to commute, then working a full nine- or ten-hour day followed by another commute had me nervous.

But because I was only half-time this week, the schedule itself wasn’t the problem. What surprised me was how hard it was to keep up cognitively-in meetings, in conversations, and in the constant flow of information my job requires.

I work in a fast-paced environment. There are a lot of moving parts, and before the accident, I handled that easily. I listened. I absorbed. Things landed in memory and were there when I needed them. It wasn’t something I had to think about. It just worked.

Then the accident happened.

And somewhere in all that chaos, I sustained a mild traumatic brain injury.

At the time, the doctors didn’t seem especially concerned about it. When they reviewed my injuries and restrictions, the TBI was barely mentioned. In rehab, I worked briefly with a speech therapist on memory, but once I was discharged, there were no follow-ups. No warnings. No instructions.

So I assumed it had healed. That it left no trace.

During recovery, I felt normal mentally. I felt like myself. Like I was firing on all cylinders again. I knew I had changed in deeper ways; I’ve written about that before. My perspectives shifted. My priorities rewired. My internal compass recalibrated.

But this week showed me something I wasn’t ready for: I don’t think the same way anymore.

My recall isn’t immediate. Things don’t stick the way they used to. I find myself struggling to hold onto threads of conversation that once would have stayed effortlessly.

And that scares the absolute shit out of me.

Maybe it’s just the shock of jumping back into the game. Maybe my brain is still adjusting. But maybe this is the new me. Maybe this is permanent. Maybe the version of me who could instantly recall details, juggle complexity, and move fast without effort… is gone.

Last night, that realization brought tears to my eyes. One more thing to be angry at the other driver for. One more thing to be angry at life for. One more thing to be angry at God for.

And I know that’s not fair. I know God’s plan is bigger than my understanding. I can see what has come from this recovery: two books finished. Several strong short stories. A motorcycle safety initiative taking shape. I see the gifts of the rewiring. I see the output.

But I’m only now fully grasping the cost.

That’s where I sit this morning, on the edge of tears, replaying the week and bracing myself for today’s appointment.

Today, I meet with specialists about my face and my lip, to see if anything can be done. I saw them early on, shortly after the accident, and they offered no reassurance, only that I needed to heal before they could assess properly.

Well, clinically speaking, I’m “healed” now. So what happens today? Will this be a waste of time? Will there be options? If there are, will insurance cover them, or dismiss them as cosmetic? Is this simply how I will look now? Forever? And what does any of that mean?

Layer that uncertainty on top of doubts about my cognitive abilities, and suddenly today feels heavy in a way I can’t shrug off.

Today is a scary fucking day.

And all I can do is walk into it honest, open, and hoping that whatever this new version of me looks like, inside and out, I can learn how to live in it.