One Oar on the Rapids

ILast night, I saw something on TV that hit deeper than I expected. A man, alone on a raft, seated dead center, navigating whitewater rapids with two oars. Simple enough—until it wasn’t.

Because that’s what it used to feel like: life. Chaotic, sure—but with two oars, you had control. You could paddle left, steer right, spin if needed. You could stay afloat.

Then came the TBI.

Now, it’s like someone yanked one of those oars from my hands. I’m still on the raft, still in the current, but everything’s changed. The same rapids are harder. The same turns take longer. The same crashes hit deeper.

Navigating the waters of consciousness with a brain injury is like learning to steer all over again—with half the tools and double the current. But I’m learning. Slowly. Messily. And that, I guess, is the journey.

Even with one oar… I’m still moving forward.