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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.

The Quiet Power Of Gratitude

Posted on by RobBaugh
Gratitude

Gratitude has a way of reshaping the way we see the world.

Most of us are blessed beyond measure, though we rarely stop long enough to truly feel it. We have food on our tables, a place to rest our heads, and people who love us. Some live in abundance, others in simplicity—but all of us have something to be thankful for. The real question is: how often do we pause to notice?

Each day, I try to find at least one thing that fills me with gratitude. Some days, it’s as big as the freedom I enjoy as an American—the ability to speak my mind, to dream, to pursue what I love. Other days, it’s as small and simple as a warm cup of coffee that brews in under two minutes. Gratitude doesn’t ask for grandeur; it only asks for awareness.

When I first began reflecting on gratitude after my brain injury, I struggled to find reasons to be thankful. But the deeper I looked, the more blessings I uncovered. Before my injury, I had only a handful of close friends. Now, I have a community so rich and full that my greatest challenge is finding time to see everyone. That is a gift I do not take lightly.

My brain injury also gave me something unexpected—a new way of seeing the world. Where others get tangled in the complexity of a problem, I often see a simple, elegant solution hiding in plain sight. It’s as if life slowed down just enough for me to notice what others miss. In a world addicted to overthinking, that feels like a quiet superpower.

And then there’s the gift I never expected to be grateful for: I don’t always catch sarcasm anymore. Once upon a time, I took everything to heart—every offhand remark, every joke at my expense. Now, the sharp edges of words often pass right over me, leaving me with peace instead of pain. What once might have wounded me now simply floats away.

Don’t mistake me—there is nothing glamorous about a brain injury. It comes with daily struggles, moments of deep frustration, and endless lessons in patience and humility. But even in the midst of the hard days, gratitude shines through. Because when I take the time to truly see what I have—to count what’s right instead of what’s wrong—I realize I have far more blessings than burdens.

Happiness, after all, isn’t found in the absence of struggle. It’s found in the quiet decision to be thankful anyway.

And that, perhaps, is the most powerful healing of all.

Seasons of healing and finding beauty in every chapter of change

Posted on by RobBaugh

The Seasons of Healing: Finding Beauty in Every Chapter of Change

Seasons have a way of reminding us that change is not just inevitable — it’s essential.
Each one arrives with its own rhythm, its own lessons, and its own quiet invitation to grow.


As we recently welcomed fall and bid farewell to summer, many of us breathed a sigh of relief. This past summer’s heat was relentless — the kind that drives you indoors and tests your patience with even the simplest outdoor joys. Some people flourish in that kind of intensity; I’m not one of them. I welcomed autumn with open arms, ready for the crisp air, the golden leaves, and maybe a pumpkin spice latte or two. But I also know how quickly it will pass. Winter is never far behind — waiting quietly, just beyond the glow of the holidays and the whispers of “Black Friday savings.”


Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how life after a brain injury feels a lot like the turning of the seasons. Each stage carries its own weather, its own beauty, and its own kind of pain.


The injury itself — that first impact — is winter.
It’s cold and isolating. Everything familiar feels buried beneath layers of confusion, exhaustion, and loss. You cling to whatever warmth you can find, fighting simply to survive. Every small victory feels monumental because, in the midst of the storm, survival is monumental.

But slowly— winter softens. The ice begins to melt.

And spring arrives.


Spring is fragile but full of promise. You start to relearn, to rediscover, to rebuild. The tiniest signs of progress become symbols of hope. You may still tread carefully, but the world begins to look a little brighter again.

Then comes summer — the season of strength.
You find your rhythm. You begin to trust yourself again. You make new connections, explore new possibilities, and uncover parts of yourself you never knew existed. Joy returns. Confidence blooms. You start to feel alive again.


And finally, autumn.
The season of reflection.
You look back — not with regret, but with gratitude. You see the distance you’ve traveled, the storms you’ve survived, and the growth that’s taken root in your soul. You begin to share your story, helping others prepare for their own winters.


Because that’s what healing truly is — a cycle of endings and beginnings, losses and renewals.

What’s in it for them?

Posted on by RobBaugh

 

What’s In It for Them?

 

 

Today, I was asked a question that stopped me in my tracks—a simple question, yet profoundly revealing:


“What do they get out of it?”

 

If you’ve followed me for any amount of time, you know that my heart beats for one mission: spreading awareness about brain injuries. It’s my purpose, my passion, and the story I carry with me every day. Yet, one of the greatest challenges I face is simply getting the opportunity—convincing people to open the door and let me share that story.

 

When that question was asked—what do they get out of it?—it made me pause. I’ve always focused on the value of the message itself: education, awareness, and the inspiring story of transforming pain into purpose. But I had never really stopped to consider the deeper “why” for my audience.

 

So… what is in it for them?

 

My story isn’t just about surviving a brain injury—it’s a testimony. It’s about how God took brokenness and built something beautiful from it: a podcast that gives voice to the voiceless, a book that brings hope to the hurting, a global network that connects survivors and caregivers who once felt alone.

 

 

It’s not just about awareness. It’s about awakening.
It’s about grace.
It’s about resilience.
It’s about divine purpose.

 

Because this message—though rooted in brain injury—is really about the human experience. Every one of us knows what it’s like to feel unseen, misunderstood, or forgotten. We’ve all faced moments where we needed compassion more than correction, understanding more than answers.

 

My story reminds people that they’re not alone. That community still exists. That even in the darkest places, connection can be the light that leads us forward.

 

At its core, my message is about hope—hope that healing is possible, that purpose can grow out of pain, and that no matter what we’re going through, someone does understand. Someone has been there. Someone is ready to celebrate your victories and stand beside you through your struggles.

 

 

That’s what’s in it for them.
That’s what’s in it for all of us.

 

Off the Grid: A Lesson in Love, Aging, and Brain Injury

Posted on by RobBaugh

This afternoon, I got a call from my aunt. She was trying to reach my dad, but he wasn’t answering—and that was unusual. My dad always picks up on the first ring. His phone is practically an extension of his hand. After work, my brother and I drove to his house. No car in the

driveway. No sign of him. We checked the usual places—his home, the bowling alley—but he was nowhere to be found. That quiet panic started to build. Was he okay? Had something happened? Was he in a ditch somewhere, hurt and alone?

We searched every alley in the area until finally, sitting in the parking lot of one last bowling alley, I tried calling him one more time.

He answered. Turns out, he’d gone bowling and turned off his phone so he wouldn’t be disturbed. He was fine. But for those few hours, the uncertainty was overwhelming. When someone you love goes off the grid—especially as they get older—it can trigger a flood of emotions. Fear. Confusion. Helplessness.

And then it hit me: I do the same thing.

As a brain injury survivor, I’ve wandered off in stores without realizing how long I’ve been gone. I’ve taken longer than expected grabbing fast food, only to get a call from my wife asking where I am. She’s not checking up on me because she doesn’t trust me. She’s checking in because she loves me. Because she knows how easily I can get confused. Because she wants me safe. It’s easy to forget that our caregivers carry a quiet burden. They’re always watching, always worrying, always hoping we’ll stay within reach. And when we don’t, even for a short time, it can feel like the ground disappears beneath them.

This experience reminded me of something important: we owe it to the people who love us to keep them in the loop. If we change our routine, take a detour, or just need a moment alone, a quick message can go a long way. It’s not about control—it’s about compassion.

So here’s my promise: I’m going to make a conscious effort to stay connected. To let my loved ones know where I am. To remember that love often looks like a phone call, a check-in, a moment of concern. Because being off the grid might feel freeing—but being found is what keeps us safe.

Chapters I Can’t Remember, Lessons I’ll Never Forget

Posted on by RobBaugh

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.


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