Where does time go?
It’s a question I ask often—especially living in a world where memories slip away faster than I can hold them. I used to beat myself up for forgetting something that happened just two days ago. But I’ve learned to let go of that guilt. I’ve learned to stop measuring my worth by what I can recall.
Some people struggle to accept that they’re no longer the person they once were. I get it. It’s hard to embrace the things you lose. But I’ve come to see my life differently—not as broken, but as a book. And the things I once viewed as lost? They’re just earlier chapters. They mattered. They shaped me. But they don’t define me.
Each new chapter brings a chance to learn new talents, meet new friends, and explore things I never thought possible. I’ve discovered that I don’t fear failure anymore. Why? Because failure means I tried. It means I showed up. And every time I fall short, I learn what didn’t work—and I get to try again, this time with new strategies and deeper wisdom.
Brain injury may have rewritten parts of my story, but it hasn’t taken away my ability to grow. I’m still writing. Still learning. Still turning the page.
And that, to me, is a miracle.