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Being thankful and the THROUGH

Posted on by RobBaugh

Some days, finding a reason to be thankful feels like a battle. I live my life to make others happy; I am a people pleaser by nature, and I offer no apologies for that. It is who I am. But when it comes to my own happiness, I’ve learned to look for the microscopic miracles. I don’t do this because it’s easy—I do it because everything matters.


Society teaches us to measure success by bank accounts and viral trends, yet we forget the currency that actually keeps us alive. When was the last time you were truly grateful for the air in your lungs? We can survive without the latest video game or TikTok trend, but take away our oxygen, and the game is over. So, I hunt for the little nuggets of gold that most people walk right past.


My brain injury, in a strange way, was the gift I didn’t know I needed. It amplified my gratitude. Yes, it came with a warehouse full of challenges, but I refuse to let a day pass without finding one thing to be thankful for. Every win, every loss, every mountain, and every valley—they may be glorious or disastrous, but they are mine. I wasn’t promised today, yet here I am.


Recently, I realized something that stopped me in my tracks: "Do not get rid of your pain until you learn what it has to teach you."

It is a simple phrase packed with a harsh reality. When we hurt, we want instant relief. We want the shortcut. But let me get raw and real with you: The magic happens in the THROUGH.


We cannot grow if we take the easy exit. If we silence the pain before we understand it, history will only repeat itself. The "through" is where the lesson lives. It teaches us what we are truly made of. whether it’s learning to treat our bodies better, changing our habits, or simply slowing down. Listen to the pain. Find the lesson. And be thankful that you are strong enough to survive the lesson.

How Thanksgiving is like a Brain Injury

Posted on by RobBaugh
thanksgiving

With the Thanksgiving holiday coming up, I thought, How would Thanksgiving be like a brain injury? This is my opinion — shaped by lived experience, healing, frustration, and a sense of humor you sometimes need just to survive the day.

 

1. The Overwhelm Hits Before You Even Begin

Thanksgiving looks simple on paper: cook food, gather people, eat. But anyone who’s hosted knows it’s never that smooth. There are lists, prep work, last-minute changes, the oven acting up, guests arriving early, and that one dish someone always forgets.

A brain injury is the same way. People on the outside see the “simple” version — just rest, heal, and you’ll get better, right? But inside, it’s chaos. You’re juggling symptoms, fatigue, overstimulation, memory lapses, and unexpected setbacks. And just like a kitchen on Thanksgiving morning, things get overwhelming fast.

 

2. Too Many Voices at Once

Thanksgiving gatherings are loud. There’s laughter, kids yelling, multiple conversations happening at the same time, dishes clanking, football on TV, and someone blending gravy in the kitchen.

For someone with a brain injury, that level of noise is every day — except it doesn’t take a holiday crowd to overload you. Even one room with a few people talking can feel like a full-blown family reunion inside your head. The world doesn’t politely quiet down just because your brain needs it to.

 

3. You Have a Plan… Until You Don’t

Every Thanksgiving cook has a plan: start the turkey at 9, potatoes by 11, rolls in at 12:30. But inevitably, something throws the plan off — the turkey cooks slower, someone uses the oven when they’re not supposed to, or the timer that should’ve gone off… doesn’t.

Brain injury life follows the same unpredictable rhythm. You plan your day, schedule appointments, make a to-do list, but all it takes is a headache spike or fatigue wave to knock everything sideways. Flexibility becomes survival.

 

4. People Mean Well… But Don’t Always Get It

Thanksgiving comes with well-meaning comments:

“Are you sure that’s how you make the stuffing?”
“You don’t look tired — are you sure you don’t need help?”
“Relax, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Sound familiar?

After a brain injury, you hear the same types of comments. People want to help, but they don’t always understand the mental load, emotional strain, or physical limitations you’re balancing. They don’t see the 90% of the struggle happening internally.

 

5. It’s Messy, Imperfect, and Somehow Still Meaningful

No Thanksgiving is perfect. Something burns, someone forgets an ingredient, someone argues, someone cries — yet the day still matters. It’s real. Human. Connected.

A brain injury is messy too. It changes your routines, abilities, dreams, relationships, patience, and limits. But even in all the chaos, there are moments that deepen you: flashes of gratitude, personal growth, new perspectives, emotional clarity, and the strength you didn’t know you had.

 

6. You Appreciate Small Wins

On Thanksgiving, a “small win” might be:

  • The turkey coming out juicy
  • The rolls not burning
  • Everyone eating before 9 p.m.
  • Finding five minutes of quiet in the bathroom

 

With a brain injury, small wins are everything. Getting through a day without a breakdown. Remembering something important. Having energy for one meaningful conversation. Feeling like yourself for an hour. These victories matter more than people realize.

 

The smart phone and the injured brain.

Posted on by RobBaugh

I tend to be a smartphone critic.

Every time I see someone on their phone, I make a mental note of the case — “Gee, that case looks great, I wonder where they got it?” And sometimes it’s more like, “You spent a thousand bucks on that phone and put a five-dollar plastic ‘protector’ on it? Let me know how that pans out for you.”

But I’ll admit — I quickly judge people who walk around with cracked screens.
It drives me crazy. I find myself thinking, “How in the world do they navigate through life like that?”

That’s when the light bulb went off.

 

Living with a brain injury is just like living with a cracked screen on your phone.

 

The phone still turns on. It still rings. It still holds all your memories, your messages, your apps — the core of who you are — but the cracks distort things. Sometimes you press one spot and nothing happens. Other times, it reacts, but not in the way you expect. You try to swipe, but it freezes. You open one thing, and something else pops up.

 

That’s what it feels like inside an injured brain.

You know exactly what you want to say, what you want to do, but the message doesn’t always get through. The “touchscreen” of the mind just doesn’t respond like it used to. You can see what’s behind the cracks, but getting to it takes more patience — and sometimes, more grace than the world is willing to give.

 

And yet, just like that cracked phone, the heart of it still works. The music still plays. The memories are still stored inside. The soul is untouched — it’s just harder to access.

 

What we often forget is that we live in a world that upgrades its phones every year, but struggles to show patience for people who need time to heal. We’re quick to replace, quick to judge, quick to move on — but healing doesn’t happen on a fast charger.

So the next time you see someone with a cracked screen — or someone whose “signal” seems a little slow — remember this:
They’re doing their best to navigate through the cracks.

 

And even when the glass looks shattered, the light underneath still shines through.

Because both the phone and the brain — when treated with care, compassion, and understanding — can still connect, still function, and still bring light into the world.

 

 

Even a cracked screen can still illuminate the dark.

Do you live in the future?

Posted on by RobBaugh

I do my best not to live in the rearview mirror. There’s too much pain back there—too many memories that still sting. Sometimes I wish my brain injury had wiped those moments clean, but that’s not how the brain works.


A neurologist once explained it to me this way: long-term memory is like a record—remember those old vinyl albums? Every experience, every emotion, every sound is etched into the grooves of our brain. You can’t just scratch it out. Short-term memories, on the other hand, are fleeting because they never get “pressed” into that record. They fade quickly, as if they never existed at all.


I know that’s a long setup to get to my point—but stay with me.


How many of us live in the future?

How many spend every waking moment worrying about tomorrow—about whether there will be enough money in the bank, enough time to retire, enough health to make it that far?


I hear it everywhere—at work, in coffee shops, at the grocery store. Conversations filled with worry about what hasn’t even happened yet. And I can’t help but think… I remember hearing those same fears as a child. Different people, same worries.


Somehow, we’ve been conditioned from birth to plan for what’s next. To think ahead. To save, to prepare, to predict. And yes, there’s wisdom in that. It’s good to be responsible, to make sure our families are taken care of. But somewhere along the way, we moved out of today and started taking up permanent residence in tomorrow.


The truth is, none of us are guaranteed another sunrise.


This morning, somewhere, someone who was busy planning their future didn’t wake up. Their family is now preparing for their final goodbye. Maybe it was a father who kept saying, “I’ll go see that movie next week—it’s cheaper when it comes out to stream.” But next week never came.


And that’s what we risk when we live in the future—we miss the sunsets, the laughter of friends, the warmth of a neighbor’s hello. We trade the beauty of now for the illusion of someday.


So, take a breath. Slow down. Turn down the heat on worry and let it simmer quietly on the back burner.


Look behind you when you need to learn from it.

Look ahead when you need to prepare for it.

But live—really live—right here in the middle.


Because this moment, right now, is the only place life actually happens.

The Toothpaste Principle: What a brain injury taught me about squeezing through life.

Posted on by RobBaugh
ChatGPT Image Nov 9, 2025, 06_44_35 PM

If you’ve ever had that moment where you’re standing in the bathroom, half-awake, staring at a nearly empty tube of toothpaste, then you know what perseverance looks like in its purest form. You start at the bottom and roll it up. You press, you flatten, you twist the cap, and somehow—somehow—you manage to get just enough out to make it through one more brushing.


That’s what living with a brain injury feels like most days.


It’s the constant squeezing, trying to get something useful out of a part of you that doesn’t always cooperate anymore. You press in all the right places, but sometimes nothing comes out. And sometimes, too much comes out all at once—thoughts, emotions, words—leaving you with a mess you didn’t plan for.


The Great Toothpaste Experiment

Before my injury, I never thought twice about toothpaste. I’d grab the tube, get what I needed, and move on. Easy. But now, even something that small can become a test of patience and coordination. Some mornings, I’ll stand there, gripping the tube like it holds the answers to life itself, realizing that fine motor skills and focus don’t come as naturally as they used to.

It’s humbling.

It’s frustrating.

And—if I’m honest—it’s also a reminder.


Because no matter how difficult it gets, I still get the toothpaste out. It might take a little longer. It might not look pretty. But it gets done.


That’s the thing about brain injuries—everything that once seemed simple now requires effort, creativity, and grace. The toothpaste tube becomes a symbol of resilience. You learn to adapt, to find a new way to make the small things work.



You Can’t Put It Back in the Tube

They say you can’t put toothpaste back in the tube, and that’s true for brain injuries too. Once it’s out—once your brain is rewired, changed, or scarred—you can’t just go back to how things were. But maybe that’s not the goal.


Maybe the goal is learning to live with what’s come out.

To make peace with the mess.

To find a way to still smile—teeth brushed, heart full—even when life no longer squeezes as easily as before.



The Hidden Lesson in a Morning Routine

Each day, that small act of brushing my teeth becomes a quiet victory. A reminder that healing isn’t found in grand gestures or overnight miracles—it’s in the tiny moments we push through. The ones nobody sees.


Every squeeze of that tube is a metaphor for endurance. Every drop of toothpaste that still comes out after I think the tube is empty tells me there’s still something left inside me too. Something worth fighting for.


So, the next time you’re standing at the sink, annoyed at your toothpaste for being stubborn, remember: you’re holding a symbol of persistence. You’re holding the daily proof that no matter how much life’s been squeezed out of you, there’s always a little more left to give.

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.