If you’ve ever had that moment where you’re standing in the bathroom, half-awake, staring at a nearly empty tube of toothpaste, then you know what perseverance looks like in its purest form. You start at the bottom and roll it up. You press, you flatten, you twist the cap, and somehow—somehow—you manage to get just enough out to make it through one more brushing.
That’s what living with a brain injury feels like most days.
It’s the constant squeezing, trying to get something useful out of a part of you that doesn’t always cooperate anymore. You press in all the right places, but sometimes nothing comes out. And sometimes, too much comes out all at once—thoughts, emotions, words—leaving you with a mess you didn’t plan for.
The Great Toothpaste Experiment
Before my injury, I never thought twice about toothpaste. I’d grab the tube, get what I needed, and move on. Easy. But now, even something that small can become a test of patience and coordination. Some mornings, I’ll stand there, gripping the tube like it holds the answers to life itself, realizing that fine motor skills and focus don’t come as naturally as they used to.
It’s humbling.
It’s frustrating.
And—if I’m honest—it’s also a reminder.
Because no matter how difficult it gets, I still get the toothpaste out. It might take a little longer. It might not look pretty. But it gets done.
That’s the thing about brain injuries—everything that once seemed simple now requires effort, creativity, and grace. The toothpaste tube becomes a symbol of resilience. You learn to adapt, to find a new way to make the small things work.
You Can’t Put It Back in the Tube
They say you can’t put toothpaste back in the tube, and that’s true for brain injuries too. Once it’s out—once your brain is rewired, changed, or scarred—you can’t just go back to how things were. But maybe that’s not the goal.
Maybe the goal is learning to live with what’s come out.
To make peace with the mess.
To find a way to still smile—teeth brushed, heart full—even when life no longer squeezes as easily as before.
The Hidden Lesson in a Morning Routine
Each day, that small act of brushing my teeth becomes a quiet victory. A reminder that healing isn’t found in grand gestures or overnight miracles—it’s in the tiny moments we push through. The ones nobody sees.
Every squeeze of that tube is a metaphor for endurance. Every drop of toothpaste that still comes out after I think the tube is empty tells me there’s still something left inside me too. Something worth fighting for.
So, the next time you’re standing at the sink, annoyed at your toothpaste for being stubborn, remember: you’re holding a symbol of persistence. You’re holding the daily proof that no matter how much life’s been squeezed out of you, there’s always a little more left to give.