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Author: RobBaugh

I wish I could remember to forget

Posted on by RobBaugh

Memory is a funny thing — mostly because if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry and forget why I was crying.


After a brain injury, memory has this sneaky way of disappearing mid-thought. I can literally forget what I’m doing as I’m doing it. It’s like my brain hits the “delete” button before I even finish typing the sentence.


People without brain injuries often try to comfort me by saying things like, “Oh, I forget stuff all the time too!” That’s nice — but forgetting where you parked your car isn’t quite the same as forgetting you own a car. Sure, we all misplace keys or walk into a room wondering why we’re there. The difference is, I can do that... and then forget I did it.


Brain injury memory issues are like normal forgetfulness on steroids — or maybe on decaf. Either way, it’s unpredictable. I can remember where I sat 23 years ago at a random restaurant and exactly what I ordered (Lasagna, in case you’re wondering). But an hour after breakfast, I’ll stare at the dishes wondering, Who ate this?


The frustrating part is not being able to choose what I remember. I’d love a mental filing system where I could drag and drop memories into “Keep” or “Trash.” But with a brain injury, the system crashes every time I try. So I end up remembering the TV show I watched last week but not the conversation I had last night. People think I’m joking when I say that — I’m not. I wish I could control which memories stick and which vanish into the great abyss of “Where Did That Thought Go?”


If I could pick a superpower, it would be to remember to forget — especially the stuff that hurts. The trauma, the triggers, the memories that kick my anxiety into overdrive. Because brain injuries aren’t just a test of memory — they’re a test of strength. And believe me, this is not a membership anyone signs up for.


I sometimes imagine there’s a magical pill out there that could just… poof! rewind me to my old self. But that’s not how this works. Life isn’t a fairytale; it’s more like an ‘80s sitcom — unpredictable, a little ridiculous, and sometimes weirdly profound. You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both, and yeah… there you have the facts of life.


And as strange as it sounds, there are positives to this invisible injury. I know what you’re thinking — “How could that be?” Well, when life hands you lemons, you can either make lemonade… or suck on them and make funny faces. (I’ve done both, for the record.)

If I had to sum it all up in one word, it would be “interesting.”


Because that’s what life becomes when your brain rewires itself — unpredictable, challenging, funny in unexpected ways, and still, somehow, beautiful.

Pushing through pain isn’t always easy.

Posted on by RobBaugh

Today wasn’t one of my best days.

I spent most of it in bed, and honestly, that’s okay.


There’s this pressure in our world — especially for people who’ve been through trauma or who are trying to rebuild their lives — to always “keep pushing,” to “stay positive,” to “never give up.” But what happens when pushing just isn’t possible that day? When your body feels heavy, your thoughts are foggy, and your spirit is just... tired?


That was me today. I had to do something that used to make me feel guilty: I gave myself grace. I allowed myself to simply exist. No goals. No expectations. Just breath, blankets, and being still.

Because healing — whether it’s from a brain injury, emotional pain, or life’s battles — isn’t about how fast you move forward. It’s about learning when to pause.


It’s about knowing that rest isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is listen to what your body and soul are trying to tell you:
“Slow down. It’s okay to stop fighting for a moment.”

There’s strength in surrender. There’s peace in acceptance. And there’s healing in the quiet moments when we let go of what we “should” be doing and just let ourselves be.


So, if today wasn’t your day — if pain, fatigue, or emotions got the better of you — please remember: you are not failing. You are feeling. And that’s part of the process.


Tomorrow will come, and maybe you’ll rise a little stronger. But even if you don’t, you’re still enough.
Even if all you did today was breathe — that’s progress.

The quiet we’ve forgotten

Posted on by RobBaugh

What is your definition of rest?
For some, it’s a quiet stroll through the park, where the rhythm of your footsteps syncs with the whisper of the wind.


For others, it’s sharing a peaceful dinner with someone who makes time stand still.
Maybe rest, for you, looks more like creation — building something with your hands, writing, reading, or sinking into a recliner with your favorite show humming in the background.


Whatever rest looks like, I want to challenge you to think deeper.
Because true rest isn’t just about stopping your body — it’s about unplugging your mind.


We live in a world that’s constantly buzzing. Phones, computers, TVs — our attention is being pulled in a hundred directions before breakfast. We scroll, swipe, refresh, repeat… and call it relaxing. But most of us have forgotten what it means to truly be still.


When was the last time you sat quietly — no phone, no music, no background noise — and just let your mind breathe?

Not plan. Not worry. Just exist.

We’ve become so conditioned to stimulation that silence feels awkward, even uncomfortable. The moment we get still, our thoughts start racing:

  • The to-do list we haven’t finished.

  • The conversation that stung.

  • The appointment we’re already dreading months in advance.
    Our bodies are resting, but our minds are sprinting laps in the dark.


But here’s the truth: rest isn’t just the absence of movement — it’s the presence of peace.
It’s learning to quiet the noise long enough to hear what your soul’s been trying to say.
It’s the pause between the chaos where clarity begins to whisper.

Start small.


Take five minutes — just five — and sit in silence. No agenda. No judgment. Just notice where your mind goes when there’s nowhere else to be.
At first, it may wander through the clutter. That’s okay. Let it. But slowly, something shifts. The static quiets. The heart steadies. The breath deepens.

And then, something beautiful happens — the thoughts that rise aren’t from stress, but from the deeper places within you that rarely get a voice.
That’s where rest begins to do its real work.


It restores. It renews. It recenters.

Maybe, in that quiet space, you’ll find the answer you’ve been searching for — or maybe you’ll find something even better: peace with not having all the answers right now.


So, take the time. Make the time.


Put down the phone. Turn off the noise. Sit with yourself — not the edited version you show the world, but the real one that’s been longing to exhale.

Because in that sacred silence, you might just rediscover the one thing the world can’t give you and technology can’t simulate —
the sound of your own soul finding rest

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.