The Invisible Injury I Forget About Because I Never Talk About It

Most people understand brain injuries as the kind where you might have obvious scars, bruises, or visible impairments. But my injury is invisible. There’s nothing on the outside that shows it’s there. No limp, no scars, no physical side effects anyone can point to.

Because of that, and because I don’t ever talk about it, I often forget I even had a traumatic brain injury. It’s like it’s tucked away somewhere in the back of my mind — not something I want to lean on as an excuse, and not something I want others to treat me differently for.

But forgetting doesn’t make it any less real. It just makes me struggle in silence with things that are harder for me than they are for others — motivation, focus, emotional energy. And that silence can be exhausting.

Lately, I’ve had no motivation to do anything. Not even in a burnout kind of way — just this total emotional flatness. If I get something done, fine. If I don’t, I don’t care. Nothing feels that urgent. I thought maybe I needed to switch up my routine or build a better one or just force myself to care again.

But then I realized — this happens every single month. And when I really sat with that, I had to face something I usually push to the side:

I had a traumatic brain injury.
And I forget that sometimes.

I mean, I know it happened. I know it changed my life. But I don’t really bring it up, and I definitely don’t like leading with it. I don’t want people treating me differently, and I’ve never wanted to use it as a reason to not try. But not acknowledging it doesn’t make it go away or mean it didn’t happen — and it definitely doesn’t help.

The Part of My Brain That Got Hit

My injury affected my frontal cortex — the part that handles motivation, planning, impulse control, emotions… all the stuff I keep beating myself up for not doing better. I look at my own behavior and think, “What’s wrong with me?” and completely forget that I had a major brain injury. The kind that rewired some core functions.

It’s not just forgetting stuff or procrastinating — it’s that blank, apathetic space where even basic tasks feel like too much. Showering, eating, texting someone back, getting dressed. It’s not that I don’t want to be functional. I just don’t have access to that switch when this hits.

And what makes it worse is I remember how it used to be — before the accident. I remember being someone who could just push through, even if I didn’t feel like it.
And now, when I can’t push through, all it does is add to the anxiety about the things I’m not doing.
Which just makes me freeze up more. It turns into this loop — I feel nothing, then panic about what I haven’t done, then shut down even harder.

It’s not about being lazy. It’s literally my brain short-circuiting and locking me out of the driver’s seat.

Today I Actually Said It Out Loud

Had an appointment with my PCP today. Finally brought all of this up — the apathy, the flatness, how it comes in waves, and how I’ve tracked it back more than a decade. I told her I’d been thinking about med changes that might make more sense given the TBI, ADHD, and anxiety all stacked on top of each other.

And honestly — it was nice that she was open to hearing me out. I laid out what I’d been thinking, and she didn’t dismiss it or brush past it. We had a real conversation about it.

There was one ADHD combo I brought up that she said she wasn’t comfortable prescribing — just because it’s not typical to use those two together — but she was willing to adjust my anxiety meds and start there. We made a plan to check in again in 6–8 weeks, and if things still aren’t great, we’ll either bring in my old TBI specialist or loop in a psychiatrist to really tailor something to my brain.

It felt good to actually say it out loud. To not downplay it or worry about sounding dramatic. To just name it and have someone on the other end talk through what I was saying with me.

What I Want People To Understand

I’m not looking for pity. I just want space to be honest. This is real. It’s not dramatic, it’s not exaggerated, and it’s not an excuse. It’s my reality — and when I pretend it’s not, I end up pushing myself harder than I should and blaming myself for things that just take more out of me than they used to — things I have to do in my own new and unique way.

I don’t want to be seen as fragile. But I also can’t keep acting like I didn’t go through something serious — something that changed the way I function at a core level. It’s exhausting trying to “keep up” with a version of myself that doesn’t exist anymore.

I need systems that actually work for me. Routines with flexibility built in. People who don’t take it personally if I disappear for a bit or need to cancel. And honestly? I need to start giving myself the same grace I give everyone else.

One Last Thing

When it gets really bad, I talk to myself like I talk to my dog. Patient, soft, low stakes. No judgment. Just, “Hey. We’re okay. Let’s take it slow.”

I’m not weak.
I’m not giving up.
I’m just learning how to live in a brain that doesn’t always cooperate.

And honestly? I’m trying not to say things like “I’ll definitely do this” or “I’m going to get all of that done tomorrow” — because I don’t want to keep promising things I can’t actually control. Sometimes I have it in me, and sometimes I don’t. And that’s not me being flaky — that’s me being honest about where I’m at.

I’m still here. Still figuring it out. And for right now, that’s enough.