The Most Important Lesson I Learned From My Brain Injury

Eight years ago today, on January 10, 2015, I woke up to light coming through my bedroom window.

On any other morning, this would have seemed like an obvious thing. A non-event hardly worth mentioning, let alone writing about.

But this wasn’t any other morning.

During the night, I had woken up in a sweat. I got out of bed to turn off the heat. The next thing I knew, I was laying on the hardwood floor, partially underneath my bed.

I had apparently fainted, hitting my head on something as I fell to the floor. Somehow, I managed to get up and get myself back into bed. I was extremely lucky I didn’t have a spinal fracture or worse.

I felt blood at the back of my head, but I couldn’t muster the energy to do something about it. I was alone. Nobody was there to assist or to reassure me.

I spent the next several hours fading in and out of consciousness, wondering if I’d survive the night.

Wondering who would find me if I didn’t.

Wondering how long it would take someone to notice I was missing.

Wondering the kinds of things nobody should have to wonder, but that many of us, at some point, will wonder.

Am I going to die here, alone?

When I woke up the next morning, the light streaming through my windows wasn’t just an ordinary occurrence.

It was an extraordinary phenomenon.

Being awake. Seeing the light.

In the spiritual world, these metaphors are so overused they have lost their meaning. But I am not just using these terms metaphorically. I am also talking literally.

In our quests to achieve more, to aim bigger, to find greater meaning and purpose in life, how often do we overlook the most mundane of miracles?

Waking up in the morning. Seeing the light. Getting out of bed and being able to stand and balance on your feet without falling over.

Plenty of people don’t get to experience this on a daily basis.

In the months that followed, as I struggled to recover from a brain injury and post-concussion syndrome, I often faced moments where I had previously taken something for granted.

Every year on this anniversary, I remind myself to remember that morning.

Waking up. Seeing the light. Standing without falling down.

Maybe that’s the purpose of life, right there: to remember that the meaning we are seeking likely comes from what we are taking for granted.