Confessions of a Concussed Cyclist: 12 years

August 19, 2026

Tuesday, August 19, 2014 I went to my new job at a new school and worked setting up my office and reviewing my students IEP’s.  I then drove to Gorham, New Hampshire, to pick up my brand new Porky Gulch bike jersey and join the group ride that my brother led.  We took a group photo, where we all smiled, proudly showing off our new attire.  That is literally the last photo of me before it all changed.

7:11 pm a 911 call was placed that a cyclist had been hit by a driver. I didn’t know it then, but life forever changed that day.  Once the adrenaline wore off, I knew something was very wrong, but it still took me many, many years to accept that what was wrong was forever.  

12 years. 4,383 days.  626 weeks.

I hate this day.  This day breaks my heart. As the 19th draws near, my frustration rises, my patience disappears, my anger is hard to contain. I would be happy if this day was permanently removed from all calendars.  

Why?  Why did I go on that ride?  Why did we go on that route?  Why did that driver have to be there?  Why didn’t she stop?  Why was I destined to live a life that is SO DAMN HARD?

Never let the smile, the laugh, the “I’m fine” fool you.  I struggle.  Every. Single. Day.  I struggle more than you will ever know or understand.  I’m just really good at hiding it.  I started off hiding it because I was embarrassed. I know it’s awful to say, especially as a Special Education teacher, but I was.  Then I quickly learned how uncomfortable people were when I let it all out, so I continued to hide it.  Then, it just became second nature.  I am really good at pretending I’m ok. I think I deserve an award for that.  People tell me “I get how you feel…I’m tired too” or “I understand…I have a migraine too”…you truly do not understand.  Trust me.  If I laid out every single symptom that I have on a daily basis, you would be shocked that I’m still standing.

Why did this have to be my life?  Don’t get me wrong, I am so thankful I survived.  It breaks my heart when I think about all the things I could have missed had I not. In the beginning, everyone said, I shouldn’t have walked away that day. But in exchange for surviving, I have to fight so hard just to exist, to function.  I have to fight to get groceries, run errands, do laundry, and make a meal.  I have to fight to exercise or spend time with friends or family.  I have to miss out on a lot of life. So yes, I’m thankful I survived, but I’m not able to truly live.  I’m just continuing to survive. 

364 days out of the year, I have to keep myself in check.  I have to bury the anger I feel towards my situation.  I have to downplay how hard life is (and don’t bother saying I don’t…until you’ve walked in my shoes, you’ll never understand that yes, I actually do). I have to smile and laugh and joke and pretend like I’m not drowning. I have to do all the adult things and it’s exhausting. But today, this one day, I allow myself to feel it all.  I allow myself to hate the world, to despise the driver, to curse that this is my life, to cry, to scream, to shout. I allow myself to drown for this one day, because I’m tired of trying to keep my head above water the rest of the year.  I want to be alone.  I need to be alone.  I’ve tried being around people on this day and it never goes well.  

Why?  Why did these have to be the cards I was dealt?  I want a simpler life.  I want pain-free days.  I want to be able to make plans without also having to factor in time for resting up beforehand and resting after to recover.  I want to not struggle every waking minute.  

4,383 days.   

I’ve lasted longer fighting this battle than I thought I could.  I know that makes it sound like I’m suicidal, I’m not, but every day I wonder how I’ll get through it.  How I’ll find the energy to keep going. 

626 weeks.

I’ll go back to fighting tomorrow.  There isn’t another option. But today, I mourn the loss of who I was, who I was supposed to become.  I mourn a life I wasn’t done living. On August 19, 2014 I survived, but I had many dreams, wishes, goals, and ambitions, die instead.  

12 years.