Uncharted Mind Living life with a TBI and ADHD
The Rhythm of the Reroute
⚠️ Trigger Warning:
This piece contains references to suicidal thoughts and the lived experience of a traumatic brain injury. If you’re in a vulnerable place, please take care while reading — and know you are not alone. You matter. If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out to a mental health professional or call/text 988 (U.S. Suicide & Crisis Lifeline).
I was twenty when my brain quietly betrayed me. It wasn’t a dramatic fracture or a physical wound I could point to and say, “Here’s where everything changed.” It was silent and subtle, creeping into the corners of my mind—slowly dissolving memories, erasing moments as if they were insignificant notes scribbled in pencil.
It began with confusion. A textbook page that vanished the moment my eyes moved. Conversations that slipped through my grasp mid-sentence. I was standing in the shower, conscious one moment and coming to, cold and shivering on the floor, with no sense of how long I'd been there. I would drive 3 hours home in the middle of the week and wake up in my bed. I had no idea how I got there or when. Doctors labeled it whiplash after my car accident, something minor, fleeting. However, I knew something deeper was unraveling within me. I was in college, a junior, trying to get through life while the ground beneath me quietly eroded.
Then came the moment everything cracked open wide enough for someone else to see. I called my mother, casual as could be. She asked me how I was, and without hesitation, I told her plainly, "I'm sitting in my window, Mom. Fifth floor. Swinging my feet and thinking about jumping." To all of my Iron Rangers, not that 5th floor. I mean, I should have been.
There was silence—a heavy, terrifying pause. She replied softly, carefully, "How about I come down and we get lunch first? You can jump tomorrow." My mom saved my life that day.
She drove three hours straight through, never faltering. Her voice and presence became a lifeline, grounding me as the world blurred around me. At HCMC, they stripped my mind to its bare bones—a team of specialists explaining carefully that the way my brain worked had fundamentally changed. Then the moment that wrecked me. I was told I could never play sports again. As a year-round athlete, my life was over. Catching was my outlet. Softball was my passion. The key word - was. I would have to relearn everything, starting at a third-grade reading level. They said I'd probably never graduate college.
Inside me, something fierce and restless surged—a rebellion I would only fully understand years later as ADHD. Undiagnosed at the time, that storm within me fueled a defiant whisper: "Fuck you, watch me." It took six extra months, but I graduated college. Then, I went on to complete my Master's later in life. Every step forward was a battle won in silence, a war no one else could see.
For fourteen years after that day, no one named my ADHD. Doctors told me it was anxiety and depression—mislabeling and medicating me without seeing the whole person. Eventually, I stopped reaching for help. I managed my chaos like a feral raccoon performing alone in the dark, pretending that everything was fine when nothing was fine inside.
The hardest part, the part I still carry every day, is forgetting. There are so many memories my brain simply chooses not to hold onto. My heart aches each time someone smiles softly and asks, "Do you remember when…?" Because usually, I don't. And I desperately want to. I want to remember every silly joke my kids told, every secret whispered by friends, and every moment of quiet laughter in the sunlight. Instead, I'm often left with blank spaces where precious moments should live.
My children have learned to ask differently now. Gently, they'll offer, "I have a story for you. Do you remember this at all?” And sometimes I do—like a distant melody I can almost hum along to—and other times it doesn't. On those days, guilt rushes in. I feel I’ve failed them by losing pieces of our shared history. It feels like trying to grasp something important hidden in a dark attic, fumbling blindly, knowing it must be there but unable to find it.
That's why I started taking pictures. Photography became my memory, proof of existence, and a quiet rebellion against forgetting. Behind the lens, my restless mind finds stillness. Shooting sports photos—capturing the exact moment of a catch, a slide, a goal, or a laugh—gives me peace. I share these moments generously with parents, coaches, athletes, and strangers, but secretly, I hope they bring you as much joy as they do me. These images are my backup memory, the insurance that I was truly there.
Yet, even photographs carry quiet pain. Sometimes, I look at images I've captured and feel nothing but hollow recognition—I don't remember being in that moment. My children fill in details, hoping their words might trigger something inside me. Sometimes, they succeed. Other times, frustration spills into tears. Memory is more than data stored—it’s emotion, connection, and humanity itself. Losing memories feels like losing bits of myself I didn’t agree to surrender.
People don’t always understand. When I forget names, faces, or details, they often assume it's indifference or carelessness. I wish they knew my truth—it’s precisely because people matter so deeply to me that forgetting hurts so profoundly. My mind, shaped differently by ADHD and wounded by trauma, simply doesn’t hold stories like other minds do. I’ve learned to wrap memories in visuals and metaphors, anchoring them deeper to give them a fighting chance.
And when pictures and metaphors fall short, I write. Writing became my sanctuary, my survival. It's how I built Dopatonin—from the ground up, piece by stubborn piece, watching endless YouTube tutorials, teaching myself new systems. No shortcuts, no easy buttons. I poured my heart into creating something beautiful out of chaos, something hopeful out of pain. All because I refused to let my struggles define me as broken. Instead, I let them shape me into someone who could offer strength to others navigating their storms.
I still cry, and I still lose pieces of time, but now, I've learned to forgive myself quickly and to trust my own resilience. My brain no longer feels like the enemy—it’s simply a complex map I’m learning to read differently each day. Memory isn't my anchor anymore. Creativity is, compassion is, and connection is.
If you're reading this and you've felt your own mind slip from your grasp—through injury, burnout, or trauma—please know you're not alone. Your path isn't broken; it's simply different. You’re navigating invisible lines, mapping territories no one else can see. Trust your compass. Trust yourself.
Because here's what I know after all this time:
You are not lost.
You’re moving through a map no one else can read—
A landscape charted in invisible lines,
drawn by your ADHD sparks
And rewritten by your TBI storm.
Your heart is the compass now,
Humming at a frequency most won’t hear.
It doesn’t point north—it points inward.
This is not about fixing what changed.
It’s about learning the rhythm of the reroute.
Living with both ADHD and a TBI
means feeling everything louder,
quieter, sharper, duller—
All at once.
But still, you move.
You build.
You become.
This isn’t broken.
It’s just a different kind of navigation.
And the hardest part isn’t being off course—
It’s believing that your course
Is still full of meaning.
You’re not alone.
Written and sent with all of my love.
— Jada 💛
Founder of Dopatonin™ Daughter. Sister. Wife. Fried. Aunt. Storyteller. Unapologetically alive.
⚠️ Disclaimer
Dopatonin™ does not diagnose, treat, or cure any medical or mental health condition. The content, products, and blog posts shared here are only for educational and inspirational purposes. Always consult a licensed medical or mental health professional if you are seeking clinical support.