As sun rays danced on the surface of Eagle Lake in California’s Lake Tahoe area, gentle waves of emotion bubbled up within me.
I paused before imposing granite peaks, which towered behind lines of sun-dappled evergreens. With each step to reach this point, I repeated the words “Om Namah Śivāya Om Namah Śivāya,” from a Hindu meditation chant. Tears trickled down my sweat-soaked cheeks as I stared into the vastness of the lake. I was moved not because this was a particularly difficult hike, nor because of the magical scenery, but because I had stood in this very spot more than three years ago, and so much had changed.
In January 2020, I went on an impromptu road trip to Lake Tahoe after spending a month at an ashram in northern California, three years after sustaining my first life- changing concussion, for what I deemed my final piece of healing. Little did I know I would return to this spot three years later after fighting the toughest battle of my life once again—recovering from my second traumatic brain injury (TBI).
As I trekked on the well-laid-out, popular trail near South Lake Tahoe, I sang the chant, which means “I bow down to Shiva,” a Hindu God, and to yourself. The everchanging natural scenery reminded me that life is in a constant state of flux and that life cannot exist without loss, even within nature. And nature is where I sought healing during my nearly eight-year recovery journey. The whistling winds through bountiful trees, the crash of waves on a craggy oceanside rockface or hiking beneath a canopy of trees often brings me an overwhelming sense of awe, wonderment and peace.
I sustained my first concussion in 2017 from an accidental kick to the jaw while helping a fellow yogi execute a headstand after a yoga class. The brain injury rendered me unable to work for more than a year. I spent that year in a dark room—concussion recovery protocol at the time—unable to handle lights, loud sounds and what felt like the chaos of the outside world. The crushing head pressure, migraines, nausea, insomnia, memory loss, confusion and depression rocked my world. Prior to the concussion, I was strong and active— thanks to regular boot camp classes and strength training—and I worked as a breaking-news journalist, chasing stories during 10-hour workdays with The Associated Press.
One year after my accident, I landed my dream job as an editor at HuffPost Canada—a job I struggled with, not realizing my brain had atrophied while sitting in that dark room. After my contract ended, I became a full-time freelancer, reporting on how Covid was affecting vulnerable communities for The Toronto Star. In between assignments, I ventured into nature, taking hours-long walks, perfecting what I deemed the slow living of lockdown. I felt like I was finally healthy, happy and thriving again, despite the world crumbling around me—until a fateful birthday celebration. On June 2, 2020, my sister and I were driving home from a hike when she unexpectedly swerved the car and we were hit by an oncoming SUV. I regained consciousness under the passenger airbag of her Tesla. En route to the hospital, I prayed that all I had was whiplash.
But the power of positive thinking couldn’t triumph over head trauma. In an instant, my world fell apart—again. The intense head pressure and blinding migraines hit. The nausea returned in full force. All the old bedfellows that run amok with head trauma were back. But this time, they came with what felt like a second tier of symptoms—life-changing ones. And here’s what most people don’t know about concussions: they don’t just affect your brain. The effects can be deep and long-lasting.
Though the accident didn’t cause physical damage to my legs, I struggled to walk in the first few months post-TBI, saddled with debilitating symptoms. At times, I experienced full-body and speech paralysis, which doctors were unable to treat. As someone who had exercised nearly daily for 20 years and written about extreme adventure travel, this huge setback was gutting to me. Progress felt like it moved at a snail’s pace, but after some weeks, I started regaining my mobility by taking five-minute walks around my neighbourhood to get some fresh air and move my body. Initially, I would fatigue easily, at times out of breath just from leaving my apartment building. However, in the months that followed, I slowly extended the length of these walks. Eventually, I was able to return to trails around Toronto.
Six months after sustaining the second TBI, a friend took me to Algonquin Provincial Park for the first time ever. When I reached a viewpoint, tears welled as I stood overlooking a canopy of trees that extended for miles, both for having achieved this wee feat and for the beauty that abounds in nature. One of the few benefits of enduring this injury during the pandemic: I was forced to happily explore my own province in a way that I’d never done before. And I didn’t experience the massive FOMO that I did during my first concussion when it seemed like everyone else in my world was living their best lives while I whiled away my time in that dark room.
As an outdoor adventurer who thrived on conquering difficult multi-day hikes on notable mountains; who had soared through forests and deserts on a mountain bike; who had canyoneered, climbed and rappelled off mountains; and who had penned lengthy travel features; I mourned the loss of my former self, while also trying to regain some semblance of my identity. Hiking in Algonquin brought me one small step toward reconnecting with her.
If you haven’t experienced a traumatic brain injury, chances are you don’t know much about them. I certainly didn’t before mine. I had to give up my apartment in downtown Toronto to move home for the first time in my adult life, and I lost my contract at The Star. I also lost my partner and some friends (very common occurrences for TBI survivors), and, most significantly, myself, as I attempted to recover almost completely alone. And I’m not unique. Millions around the world sustain traumatic brain injuries and their lives are upended. They may never return to work, their marriages may fall apart and their health is shaken to its core.
I’ve heard that many TBI survivors never fully recover, but I’m determined to continue trying. My visit to Eagle Lake three years after my first brain injury and again three years after my second brain injury were moments of victory. It was a full return to nature as my sanctuary and healer. A return to doing what I love and what makes me, me—travelling, pushing myself and getting out into the Great Outdoors As I stood before my reflection in the crystal-clear waters of Eagle Lake, I stood before a new version of myself, determined not to be defined by my traumatic brain injury. And, more importantly, aware that on a difficult healing journey, it truly is about taking one step at a time, with the hope that the rocky terrain beneath my feet won’t continue to be the rocky terrain of my recovery.
This article originally appeared in Explore Magazine’s Spring 2024 issue. Subscribe now to support Canadian journalism.
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