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Author: RobBaugh

Purpose for the pain

Posted on by RobBaugh

From the moment my life changed five years ago, my only goal was to find purpose in the pain. The sleepless nights, the tears that came without warning, and the dark thoughts that whispered I might be better off gone — they all had to mean something. I refused to believe that everything I endured was for nothing. I needed to find a way to make sure others didn’t feel as lost, broken, or invisible as I once did.


When I began the podcast, I knew I wouldn’t change the world. Some people would scroll past, some would never care to listen — and that’s okay. I couldn’t heal every person with a brain injury. I couldn’t erase their pain or restore what was lost. But I never focused on what I couldn’t do. I focused on the how.


How could I use my story to shine a light on millions living quietly with pain, memory loss, and hopelessness? How could I help the world sit up and take notice — not of me, but of them?


At one point, another survivor told me I was wasting my time. He said no one wanted to hear about brain injuries — that I couldn’t help everyone. And you know what? He was right. I can’t help everyone. But he was also wrong — because I have helped someone. In fact, I’ve helped many “someones.” I’ve received messages from people who once resisted hearing the message, only to later thank me for not giving up. For showing them they weren’t alone.


I don’t do this for praise. Truth be told, I’m not half the man some people think I am — but I’m working on it. If you’ve read my book, you know the hurdles I’ve faced. I’m still learning to offer myself the same grace I freely give to others. I’m still a work in progress. But then again, aren’t we all?

This morning, I woke up to an email that said, “Congratulations on 50,000 views.”
Then, as if life wanted to remind me how far we’ve come, my Facebook memories popped up — showing that exactly one year ago, we had just hit 9,000.


That moment didn’t fill me with pride as much as it did gratitude. I was overwhelmed — not by the numbers, but by the stories behind them. Every view represents a person — someone out there who needed a word of hope, a reminder that they still matter.


Yes, I’m proud of what my cohost Ashley and I have built. But it’s not about plaques, awards, or money (which, for the record, there isn’t any). It’s about people — real people — who once believed no one cared enough to tell their story.


That’s what it’s all about.


If you’re reading this for the first time, or if you just discovered Life Rewired, the greatest compliment you could ever give us is to share our message. Subscribe to the channel, tell a friend who needs encouragement, and help us spread what truly matters — hope, love, and faith.

Because even in pain, there is purpose. And sometimes, all it takes is one voice to remind another that they’re not alone.

More time than energy: A reflection on empathy.

Posted on by RobBaugh

You’ve probably heard the phrase, “I’ve got more month than money.” If not—lucky you.

But today, I found myself thinking of a different spin: “I’ve got more time than energy.”


Wait—don’t I have that backwards?

For most people, yes. They race through life with energy to spare and not enough hours to use it. But for those of us living with a brain injury, time stretches long while energy runs short. Even the simplest task—a phone call, a load of laundry, a walk to the mailbox—can feel like climbing Everest with a backpack full of bricks.


And for those who haven’t walked this path, that reality is… inconceivable.

I’ve tried to explain it. I’ve used metaphors, analogies, even humor. But the truth is, unless you’ve lived it—unless you’ve felt your brain short-circuit over something as basic as choosing what to eat—you can’t fully grasp it.


I’ve watched loved ones battle cancer. I’ve held their hands, prayed with them, cried beside them. And as much as I sympathize, I know I’ll never truly understand their pain. I imagine it’s unbearable. But imagination isn’t experience. And empathy isn’t a shortcut to knowing—it’s a bridge to caring.

So yes, I’ve said a lot to get to my point. (Give me a break—I’ve got a brain injury.)


And that point is: Empathy.


What does it mean to you?


Webster’s defines it as “the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another.”


It’s a beautiful definition. But the part that hits me hardest is: “Being sensitive to.”

We live in a world that’s lost its sensitivity. We’re bombarded with bad news—on our phones, our TVs, in casual conversation. Tragedy has become background noise. And in that constant hum, our ability to truly feel for others has dulled.


I don’t think we do this on purpose. But I’ve felt it. I’ve received what I call “diluted empathy.” It’s the kind that’s polite, well-meaning, but hollow. It’s empathy that checks the box without touching the soul.

I remember a time when empathy was messy, loud, and sometimes over-the-top. People cried with you. Sat with you. Prayed with you. They didn’t just say “I’m sorry”—they showed it.


So, here’s my challenge—to you, and to myself:

Check in.

On the sick.

On the recovering.

On the grieving.

On the quietly struggling.


Listen to your words. Let them soak into your own spirit before you offer them to someone else. Let your language be a ministry. Let your presence be a balm.


Because empathy isn’t just about understanding. It’s about showing up—with sensitivity, with intention, and with love.

Sometimes you get what you need

Posted on by RobBaugh

I’ve always been terrible with names. This isn’t some new post–brain injury issue — I was born with this particular talent. Years ago, someone told me I was just being rude for not listening or caring enough to remember people’s names. Ouch. That one stuck with me. Because if you really know me, you know that couldn’t be further from the truth.


If I were on a sinking boat with one life jacket left, it would belong to someone else — probably someone whose name I still couldn’t remember, but whose life I’d gladly save. I’ve always had a heart for people, and that’s something I’ll never apologize for.


But it’s not just names I get wrong. Oh no, I am the reigning king of misheard lyrics, botched celebrity names, and completely made-up band titles.


Case in point: tonight my brain refused to shut off — again — and a song I hadn’t heard in forever started looping in my head. I was convinced it was U2. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. The song was “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” and it was The Rolling Stones.


As I replayed those lyrics, one line hit me like a bolt of truth:
“If you try sometimes, you just might find… you get what you need.”


That one sank deep.


Before my brain injury, I had big dreams — plans, goals, a roadmap that looked nothing like where I am today. The day everything changed, I thought my life was over. I didn’t blame God — I blamed myself. I thought I had ruined everything. But what I thought was the end of the road turned out to be a divine detour.


Sure, I could definitely live without the 24/7 headache that’s been my unwanted companion for five years. But the blessings that came with this new life? They’re beyond measure. I’ve made incredible friends, connected with the most inspiring souls on the planet — and as a bonus, I get to rewatch the same TV shows like it’s the first time, every time. Beat that, Netflix.


It’s not easy. There are nights I cry myself to sleep. But even then, God carries me through the storm — even when I don’t love myself, He still loves me.


No, I didn’t get what I wanted in life. But thank God, I got what I needed.

The Sweet, Sparky Chaos of a TBI kind of day

Posted on by RobBaugh

Ah yes, the gifts of a traumatic brain injury — those delightful little surprises life sprinkles in when you least expect it. Some days I’m firing on all cylinders, feeling like a motivational poster in motion. And other days… well, other days I’m convinced I’ve just landed from Planet “Wait, What?”


My wife, bless her patience, is always reminding me: “Put things on the calendar the moment you know about them.” She says it lovingly, like she’s talking to a golden retriever holding a sandwich. And I mean to listen — I really do. But then something shiny rolls by, and just like that, my good intention packs its bags and leaves the building faster than Elvis in Vegas.


Today was one of those “perfect TBI storms.” Every possible chance for confusion? Oh, it took it. And then asked for seconds.


It started with an email from someone wanting to set up a date and time to be on the podcast. They wanted to do a quick Zoom call first, just to talk about the topic. Easy enough, right? Except my brain decided this person was a friend of a fellow survivor who makes T-shirts. So naturally, I replied all excited about giving him some free promotion for his shirts.


Several hours later, I checked Messenger — which, by the way, is not the best way to reach me if you need something urgently. Email me. I have only 23 unread messages there instead of the 57 waiting in Messenger. Anyway, this guy’s message said, “Check your email.” So I checked. Nothing. I told him to resend it… and that’s when it finally hit me: I had already emailed him. I just didn’t realize it was him. So somewhere out there is a very confused man wondering why I’m so eager to talk about his T-shirts.


Later that day, my wife handed me some silverware and said, “Can you put this in the dishwasher?”
Simple enough task, right? Except my brain heard “coffee pot.”


So now I’m standing in the kitchen, staring at a spoon, wondering how I’m supposed to fit it inside a coffee maker. Finally I ask, “Um… why do I need to put this in the coffee pot?”


She just blinked, sighed, and said (louder this time), “I said dishwasher.” That’s when it clicked — she had said the right thing; my brain just translated it into nonsense. It wasn’t her fault. The signal just took the scenic route.


And that, my friends, was my day — a rollercoaster of confusion, comedy, and delayed comprehension.


How was yours?

 

“The Weekend Warrior (Who Should’ve Stayed on the Couch)”

Posted on by RobBaugh

This past weekend I promised myself I wouldn’t overdo it. Apparently, my definition of “taking it easy” and my body’s definition live in two completely different zip codes — possibly even time zones.


Saturday morning started simple enough. I decided to do a little patchwork in the driveway. Never done it before, but hey, I watched a 3-minute YouTube video. I mean, how hard could it be? Spoiler alert: very. I’m convinced YouTube needs a new disclaimer — “If you’re not a professional, double the time, triple the effort, and prepare to question your life choices halfway through.”


Once I finished (and was absolutely sure I hadn’t worked hard enough to count as “overdoing it”), I made the mistake of spotting the can of paint. You know, the one that’s been staring at me for three months, whispering, “You’ll get to me eventually.” So, I did what any reasonable person would do — I popped that lid open and decided to paint the front door trim before winter.


Now, I’ve painted enough in my life to know that the second you open a paint can, it acts like a people magnet. Suddenly, the neighborhood remembers I exist. Sure enough, as soon as I dipped the brush, someone wandered over for the longest conversation ever. Bless Sheila — my hero — who swooped in like a superhero with a distraction so I could actually finish the job.


It’s funny, when you’ve got nothing to do, nobody calls, nobody visits. But the minute you try to do something that requires focus, suddenly you’re more popular than the latest Reese’s Cup creation.


After I wrapped up, cleaned my mess (and parts of myself), Sheila and I went to dinner with some amazing friends — another brain injury survivor and his wife. Four of us total: two survivors and two caregivers. A perfect balance of chaos and compassion.


We laughed, ate great food, and for a few hours, I completely forgot about my scraped knees and the surprise streak of paint on my hand that made it look like I’d attempted a sad DIY manicure. Note to self: I’m never painting my fingernails again. I don’t care what trend men are following these days — this guy is officially sitting that one out.


All in all, it was the perfect ending to a day that started with good intentions and ended with good friends. We all agreed we should do it more often. And I, for one, can’t wait — preferably after my knees stop reminding me of that “easy” driveway project.

 

Mission Accomplished

Posted on by RobBaugh

This afternoon, I was invited to share my story at a local church. Every month, they welcome someone new to come and speak. And if you know me at all, you know I never turn down an opportunity to share my story and spread awareness about brain injury.


When I arrived, I’ll admit—I was a bit overwhelmed. The church was massive, and it looked like there were at least twenty different ways to enter. A few doors were marked “Not an Entrance,” which thankfully narrowed down my odds of getting it wrong. After circling the building a second time (maybe even a third, if I’m being honest), I decided to just go in through the main entrance. Surely someone inside could point me in the right direction.

Just as I parked, a text came through from the man organizing the event:


“When you get here, come in through entrance 7 in the back.”

I quickly replied that I had arrived and would be there momentarily. His next message made me laugh:

“Ok great, I thought I saw you circling the building.”


It’s comforting to know that even people who don’t know me yet already have my back—or maybe he just had a good sense that a guy with a brain injury might get a little turned around. Either way, it worked out.


When I speak, I often wonder—are they really listening? Do my words make sense? Do they connect?
Today, I didn’t have to wonder. I could see it in their faces. They weren’t just hearing me; they were listening. They laughed at my corny jokes, nodded at the familiar struggles, and I even noticed a few misty eyes as I spoke about how God continues to use my journey to spread hope and kindness—to shine light on what’s often invisible.


They got it. They really got it.


After the talk, several people came up to thank me, sharing how my message touched them. Some spoke about loved ones living with Alzheimer’s or dementia—how my story helped them understand what their family members were going through. A few even bought my book. But for me, it’s never about the sale. It’s about connection. It’s about reminding people that everyone carries a story, and not all wounds can be seen.


There’s a saying I hold close to my heart:


“Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

That’s what I want people to remember—to treat one another with love, patience, and kindness. To never assume. To always care.

As I drove home tonight, reflecting on the day, two simple words came to mind:

Mission accomplished.

The unexpected gift in life’s imperfections

Posted on by RobBaugh

Where do you find your motivation?


Some days, I sit and stare at a blank screen, willing inspiration to appear. I search for something that hasn’t been said—a truth that can bridge the gap between my friends who live with brain injuries and those who have never known what it feels like to walk a mile in shoes like mine.

Not everything I write shines. My digital trash bin overflows with half-formed thoughts and abandoned ideas. But isn’t life a lot like that? Not every day is golden. Some days, we just sit quietly, waiting for the next shoe to drop.


One thing my brain injury has taught me is that it’s okay when life doesn’t go according to plan. In fact, some of my greatest blessings have been born from moments I once thought were mistakes. When the dust settles and I look around, what remains is always what matters most—substance, meaning, connection.

Maybe I had planned to spend the afternoon pulling weeds or trimming shrubs. But then, a neighbor stops by unexpectedly. Hours later, we’ve shared laughter, memories, and maybe a few tears. Those weeds will still be there tomorrow—but that conversation, that connection, might never come again.


We live as though tomorrow is promised, but it isn’t. I’ve sat beside loved ones in their final moments, and not once did I hear them say, “I wish I had worked harder,” or “I wish I had worried more.”
Every time, their regrets are softer, more human: “I wish I had more time. I wish I had said ‘I love you’ more.”

The truth is, now is all we ever really have—and we so often overlook it. Our motivation shouldn’t come from what’s unfinished, but from the simple miracle of being here at all.


When my time comes, I don’t want to leave with regrets. I won’t wish I had pulled more weeds. I’ll be grateful for the laughter shared, the hands I held, the stories told. I want to leave knowing I made a difference—that people saw in me a heart that was always bigger than my head, and a soul that found purpose in lifting others up so they, too, could shine.


That, to me, is motivation. Not perfection. Not productivity. But the quiet, beautiful reminder that every imperfect moment still holds something sacred—if only we take the time to see it.

Harvest Homecoming, Sweet Treats and Bittersweet Truths

Posted on by RobBaugh

Ah, Harvest Homecoming. That magical time of year when our little town transforms into a bustling maze of booths, crafts, and snacks that cost more than your first car payment. You’ll find everything from hand-carved wooden spoons to white-chocolate-dipped Oreos that are either gourmet or just confused. I haven’t figured it out yet.


But for me, the real tradition—the one I look forward to every year—is stopping by the local Boy Scouts booth and grabbing a pumpkin roll. Not just because it supports a good cause, but because it supports my well-maintained figure. And by “well-maintained,” I mean “held together by frosting and denial.” But I digress.

No trip to Harvest Homecoming would be complete without a few buckeyes. Or 326. I lose count somewhere between “this is my last one” and “do you think they sell these by the bucket?”


This year, though, things felt different.

There was a heaviness in the air—not from the sugar, but from something deeper. Last year, there was a shooting. A young man lost his life. I knew about it when it happened, but because of my brain injury, I had forgotten. That’s the thing about memory loss—it doesn’t just erase facts, it erases feelings. And when they come back, they hit harder.


He was someone’s son. Someone’s friend. Someone who probably had his own Harvest Homecoming traditions. Maybe he loved buckeyes too. Maybe he was just trying to enjoy the day like the rest of us.

And then, in a moment, everything changed.

I often think about the ripple effect of senseless violence. How one act can fracture dozens of lives. Families, friends, communities—all left asking the same question: Why?

I wish I had the answer. I wish any of us did.


But here’s what I do know: we can’t control the chaos, but we can choose how we respond to it. We can show up. We can remember. We can honor. We can keep traditions alive—not just for ourselves, but for those who no longer can.

So this year, as I wandered through the booths with pumpkin roll in hand and buckeye crumbs on my shirt, I carried a little extra weight. Not just from the snacks, but from the reminder that life is fragile. That joy and grief often walk hand in hand. And that even in the midst of tragedy, there’s still room for community, compassion, and a little powdered sugar.

We’re all rewiring. We’re all remembering. We’re all trying to make sense of the senseless. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what homecoming is really about.

Weekend Warrior: The Sacred Balance of Giving and Rest

Posted on by RobBaugh

Weekend Warrior: The Sacred Balance of Giving and Rest

This weekend, I traded my microphone for a paintbrush and my podcast chair for a deck ramp. My wife Sheila and I headed to her mother’s house to stain the deck before winter crept in. Her mom wanted to lay down anti-slip pads on the ramp to make it safer in rain and snow, and we were there to help prep the space.

We started early Saturday, but the sun had other plans—it beamed down on the exact spot I chose to stain, turning our good intentions into a four-hour sweat session.


By the time we got home, our backs were aching, and our bodies were begging for mercy. I may have done more complaining than Sheila (okay, definitely more), but after a short rest, I decided to cut the grass too. The sun was setting, the breeze was gentle, and something in me said, “Keep going.”

Sunday morning, I told Sheila to stay home and rest. I went back to her mom’s house and finished the staining job. Meanwhile, her mom laid down the anti-slip pads herself—determined, resourceful, and full of grit. And now? Her ramp is safe. Her path is secure. And my heart is full.


Did I overdo it? Absolutely.

Was it worth it? Without question.


Rest is vital—especially for those of us living with brain injuries. But so is purpose. So is love. So is showing up for the people who’ve shown up for us.


There will be days when I need to rest and take care of Rob. But there are only so many days I’ll get to take care of others. That’s the sacred balance. It’s not easy. It’s not perfect. And it’s definitely not for the faint of heart.

I’ll admit—I struggle to let others care for me. I’m stubborn. I push through. I wear my hard-headedness like a badge, even when it weighs me down. But I’m learning. I’m growing. I’m a work in progress.


And aren’t we all?


So, here’s to the weekend warriors. The caregivers. The survivors. The ones who give even when they’re tired, and rest when they finally remember they deserve it. We may be bruised, but we’re not broken. We’re rewired—and we’re still writing the story.

One size doesn’t fit all, What health plans and Brain Injuries have in common

Posted on by RobBaugh


It’s that time of year again—the season of open enrollment.
A time when we sift through health plans, weigh our options, and try to predict the unpredictable. Sometimes it feels like you need both a college degree and a crystal ball just to make sense of it all.

Most of us end up choosing something similar to what we’ve always had—something familiar, something that worked before. But as I scrolled through the endless list of plans and providers, I couldn’t help but notice how much this process mirrors the journey of living with a brain injury.

Like open enrollment, a brain injury can feel overwhelming.
You’re suddenly faced with choices and decisions that used to be simple, now layered with complexity and uncertainty. Each step requires extra effort—more patience, more clarification, and more support.

From the outside, open enrollment seems easy enough. A few clicks, a few boxes checked, and you’re done. But those who’ve gone through it know the truth—it’s draining, confusing, and mentally taxing.
A brain injury is much the same way. From the outside, we might look fine. But inside, we’re navigating layers of invisible work—processing, adjusting, and striving to make sense of a world that no longer feels intuitive.

Just as employees turn to HR reps or online comparison tools for guidance, survivors too rely on support systems—caregivers, therapists, friends, and communities who help us piece together what once came naturally. Healing, like enrollment, isn’t something you do alone.

And the impact? It lasts far beyond a single decision.
The health plan you choose today shapes your care, your finances, and your peace of mind for the year ahead. In the same way, the daily choices a survivor makes—how to rest, how to cope, who to trust, what boundaries to set—quietly shape the course of recovery.

Neither process is one-size-fits-all.
There’s no perfect plan and no universal path to healing. What works beautifully for one person might not work at all for another. Both require patience, personalization, and the courage to keep trying until something fits.

So, as we enter this season of decisions, may we remember that—whether we’re choosing a health plan or choosing hope—every step toward understanding ourselves better is a step toward healing.

My Life Rewired