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.