About

I used to think recovery meant getting back to normal. You know—cooking dinner, folding laundry, being the one who remembers the milk. But after the TBI, normal cracked open like a dropped plate (something that, unfortunately, happens often!). Everything slowed. Words. Steps. Even breathing felt like it needed permission. And yet, I still wait. Not because I’m weak, but because I love. 

And that is why I am writing this. Love. 

I learned something brutal: health isn’t just my body. It’s ours. If I push, they crumble. If I pause, we both breathe. So yeah—I still play housewife. Not because I’m stuck, but because I’m stubborn about joy. About waking up next to someone. About small wins—like the way he would smile when I leave dinner on the counter, no words needed. 

Trauma rewired me. But love? Love stayed loud. So I wait. Not forever—just long enough for us both to heal. And honestly? That’s the healthiest thing I’ve done since the bleed. Turns out, the best medicine isn’t pills (something that I do not even believe in!). It’s patience. And maybe a really good roast chicken.